Camouflage
by Serialgal
Summary: Don and Charlie's investigation of a professional football team accused of using steroids turns deadly, and stretch the brothers to their physical and emotional limits. This fic is intended to be a good beginner story for readers not familiar with Numb3rs. Set roughly at the beginning of season two, with David, Megan, and Colby. Most of this story is K , with a few T moments.
1. Chapter 1

Camouflage

_Story summary: An FBI investigation into suspicion of steroid use by a new football team turns deadly, and stretches Don and Charlie to their physical and emotional limits._

_Author's note: Anyone ready for some football? Oddly enough, with Deflategate in the press, this story involves a football scandal, but I actually wrote these first chapters back in 2012, so I can assure you, there is no connection between the current news and this story. As I sat down to write this story, one of the things I wanted to accomplish was to include enough details concerning the characters so that a reader who had never seen Numb3rs could understand some of their back-stories, and get a sense of who the characters are – in other words, to write a good beginner story for someone not familiar with Numb3rs. I tried to stay close to canon. I also centered the story around my favorite point in the series, roughly the beginning of Season 2. Charlie and Don still are trying to work through a relatively new working relationship and Colby and Megan are new to the team. This story is nearly complete; I am currently on Chapter 38 and have a couple more to write, which I hope to finish in the next couple of weeks, so rest assured, even though I've been away for a while, you'll get a finished story that won't leave you hanging. _

_Disclaimers/notices: The characters and the football team in this story are in no way intended to be portrayals of anyone in real life. This story and the concepts behind it are being filed for copyright protection. _

Chapter 1

The man stood, staring out of the window at the city skyline. His apartment was expensive and the view of Los Angeles was magnificent, but he was oblivious to his surroundings. A muscle twitched in his jaw, and he suddenly whirled and strode toward his coffee table and snatched up the prepaid cell phone from the glass surface. He jabbed at it; his eyes filled with tension, big shoulders rippling; sinews in his neck standing out like cords. He waited impatiently as it rang, then at the sound of a voice, barked into it.

"Hey, it's Deondre. It's four hours until game time, and I still don't have my stuff. I have to leave soon."

"_I told you not to call me about this unless it was an emergency."_ The voice on the other end of the line was disapproving.

Deondre's dark eyes flashed. "This is an emergency, Frank. I was supposed to have it yesterday, and now I'm goin' into the game with nothin.' "

Frank sniffed, unimpressed. "_Relax, man; it's on its way, by courier – should be there any minute. Besides, missing a day or two won't kill you – you use too much of the stuff, anyway. It takes weeks for the effects to wear off – you know that_."

"Yeah, well, this ain't just a game – you know that. If we win this one, we get home field. I got to be at my best, and you ain't helping." The buzzer for the door sounded. "Wait a minute."

He crossed over to the intercom and hit a button. "Yeah."

"Delivery for Deondre Wiseman."

Deondre pressed another button, unlocking the lower level door for the courier. "Yeah, okay, come up." He took a step back and spoke into the phone, a little sheepishly. "Okay, it's here. "

"_Don't do this again_." Frank's voice was filled with undisguised nastiness. "_You need to chill, or you'll blow this whole thing – for everyone. Our– supplier – is the bottleneck, but he's trying to make changes to keep up with the demand. In the meantime, though, you need to be patient – and make sure you put that phone in a safe place_."

"Yeah, yeah. Okay, later." A soft knock sounded at the door, and Deondre disconnected the call, tossed the phone on the sofa and strode toward the door. He opened it, and the delivery man handed him the package, grinning.

"You're him, right? The Deondre Wiseman."

Deondre eyed him. No uniform, just street clothes – obviously not an official delivery man for any legitimate business. Deondre usually didn't get the stuff delivered – he got it direct from the source, but he suspected Frank had picked a safe, discreet service, no questions asked. He nodded curtly, handed him his clipboard, but allowed a small smile. "Yeah, that's me. In a hurry – got to get down to the stadium." He reached in the pocket of his warm up pants, fished out a couple of twenties for a tip and handed it to the man. "Thanks, man."

The delivery man grinned broadly. "Sure. Thank you. Get a win today – I'll be watchin' the game. Hell, all of L.A. will be. Good luck."

Deondre nodded in acknowledgment and shut the door, making sure it was locked, and then strode toward the kitchen, and used a knife to slit the tape on the box. He turned it over on the counter, easing out the package inside and un-wrapped it to reveal a cigar box, sealed in cellophane. In it were two rows of syringes, also wrapped - two dozen of them, gleaming through their packaging like sticks of candy. He grunted with satisfaction and removed one, dropped his sweatpants, and removing the protective cap on the syringe, turned and jabbed the needle into his buttock, injecting the contents and then removing the needle and massaging the dose in. He sighed in relief, although there was no physical sensation associated with the injection – at least not yet. He'd get a little rush within the next few hours, he knew – but not a head rush, a body rush - a tingling in his muscles and something he called 'snap' – the sensation that his muscle fibers were on a hair trigger, ready to fire. Frank told him that the 'snap' sensation was just psychological, but Deondre knew otherwise. He pulled up his pants, grabbed the syringes and the cell phone from the sofa, and hurriedly stashed them in the safe in his bedroom. Moments later he was in his Cadillac, wheeling through L.A. traffic.

The rush hit a few hours later, just as he was walking down the tunnel into the new football stadium, swinging his helmet. He could feel the tingle in his muscles, could feel the 'snap,' and his heart swelled with excitement and anticipation. Two of his teammates walked beside him – Joey Cancetta and Leshawn Wilkinson – and they exchanged knowing glances. They were superb physical specimens, all of them – and three others on the team that Deondre knew of – because they all had the 'Magic.'

"Let's go get this," said Joey, and they ran out with the team onto the field to cheers that immediately spiraled into a deafening roar at the sight of the team. Deondre felt it take him, the sense of invincibility; of fierce exultation burning through his veins, and raised his arms to the crowds. He was a Warrior.

….

Don Eppes poked his head in the front door of the Craftsman home, calling, "Hello!" but not really waiting for a response. He pushed through, just as his father came through the door that led to the kitchen.

"Hey!" exclaimed Alan, "you're just in time for the game. Come on in – grab a beer. Charlie and I ordered pizza. It should be here in a bit." He bustled back in to the kitchen, and Don strolled behind him with a glance toward the dining room, where his younger brother sat, dark curly head bent over a pile of papers. Charlie looked up and bobbed his head in greeting, a tentative smile on his face.

Don nodded back, amiably enough, he thought, as he saw Charlie relax a bit. He knew the reason for Charlie's hesitant manner – they were only a year into what was truly a fledgling working relationship, and they'd just had their first big disagreement on a case. The argument was over, the case had already been closed, but the aftershocks still lingered. He and Charlie hadn't exchanged two words since it happened.

He cocked his head, considering, as he pushed through the kitchen door. 'Working relationship.' The words implied that there actually was a formal agreement, that there was a plan to collaborate on cases in the future. The fact was, as Special Agent in Charge of the L.A. FBI office, he had used Charlie's help on several cases in the last year, and he was beginning to think that enough was enough. 'Working relationship' probably implied too much. So what – he'd used his brother's help a few times; Charlie, his genius mathematician brother, youngest professor at nearby CalSci, had run a few mathematical analyses for him for a few cases – that certainly didn't need to mandate that there would be others.

He sighed. It was a question that needed to be answered, because if they were to continue working together, Don really needed to consider formalizing the working relationship with a long term contract. It would give Charlie access he needed to the FBI building, to coworkers, to the Bureau database. He had a temporary contract, but it was coming up for renewal, and Don's own boss had suggested establishing a longer term contract for him instead of renewing the short-term one for a third time. It was something Don had been avoiding – for a number of reasons, he told himself, although he couldn't put his finger on any particular one. Even apart from the argument, Don wasn't sure how he felt about Charlie being a continuing part of his work. They'd never been close; never really understood each other growing up, so it wasn't as if they had a solid personal relationship on which to base a professional one. And somehow, during the course of the year, with a little help from Charlie here, a little assistance there, suddenly there was a trend – there was a reason to start to consider this a long-term working relationship. They'd drifted into it by default rather than by conscious decision, and Don didn't care to drift into anything – he preferred to control the process.

Maybe their recent argument had been symptomatic of deeper issues. Maybe working together was pushing it - too much for a bond so fragile. If 'bond' was the right word for it – they had always been like oil and water – existing side by side, but not mixing unless they could help it. On the other hand, he wasn't about to ruin a nice afternoon by bringing that up – he was going to grab a beer, relax, and be civil – maybe even pleasant, depending on how Charlie behaved.

A few minutes later, comfortably situated on the sofa, he took a swig of beer and glanced at his brother. Charlie's tentative look when he'd come in had been a good omen; his brother was going out of his way to be conciliatory and accommodating, making small talk as he perched on the other end of the sofa. He apparently was trying to move past their disagreement. Their father came out with two beers and handed one to Charlie, and then settled happily into his armchair. The three of them had spent a lot of years apart, and Don knew his father relished these family moments. There was still a hole there; left by the passing of their mother and Alan's wife and soul-mate, just a little over a year and a half ago, but days like this eased the pain of her loss. Even Charlie, who had descended into something akin to a breakdown during their mother's last days, seemed to be healing. And as for himself… Don took another drink, and let himself relax a bit. The announcers were going through their usual pre-game spiel, and the voice of one them floated out from the television.

"… _just an amazing story. The L.A. Warriors are truly a Cinderella team –they were a brand new franchise last year, and last in the league with only a single win. What a difference a year makes - this year, with this game, they are poised to win their division and claim home field advantage for the playoffs. And apart from their starting quarterback, they are a band of virtual unknowns._"

"You know," said Charlie, "they shouldn't be here."

"… _a band of unknowns who have turned in mind-boggling performances. Deondre Wiseman leads the league in receptions…"_

Don snorted. "No shit." That came out sounding a little too sarcastic, although he hadn't meant to sound harsh, and he glanced quickly at Charlie, but his tone had gone unnoticed. Charlie was staring at the screen and waving his beer, going into math-professor mode, getting ready to lecture.

"I mean," said Charlie, "statistically speaking, they really shouldn't be here. It generally takes a new team ten years to reach this level of performance – to be a Superbowl contender."

"… _Joey Cancetta leads the league in rushing…_"

"And if you're the Cleveland Browns," said Alan drily, "you never get there."

"…_Leshawn Wilkinson leads the league in sacks…"_

Don shrugged at his brother. "The Warriors have got a good coach - and some good players."

"That's just it," said Charlie. "Their players turn in such great individual performances, they overcome the mistakes, the botched plays, that usually do in a new team. Most pro football teams have one or two players, three players, at most – of that caliber. Some don't have any. The Warriors – if you look at the player stats – they've got a least half a dozen major superstars, all leading the league in their respective stats. It's a statistical anomaly. Especially for a new team."

Don waved his beer at him. "Okay, okay, Stats Man. Pipe down. They're going to start." Charlie flushed, embarrassed, and Don softened his words by sending him a grin. Charlie stared at him, as if trying to read his expression, then apparently satisfied, sent a cautious smile back, took a swig of his beer, and settled back in the sofa cushions.

…

End, Chapter 1


	2. Chapter 2

Camouflage

_Author's note: thank you all, it's good to be back. A little more setting the stage, but rest assured, there is lots of action ahead..._

Chapter Two

Megan Reeves leaned back in her chair, and regarded the two agents across the conference room table. Green eyes flicked over their shoulders as she caught sight of Don Eppes entering the bullpen through the window of the conference room. "Here comes the boss now," she said. She watched as Don detoured into the coffee room, and decided she had a minute or two. "So, I take it Don has an issue with team members trying to call the shots." She raised an eyebrow and regarded the other two expectantly.

"Don't look at me," said Colby Granger. "I haven't been around here long enough to know, either." They both looked at David Sinclair.

The agent shifted uncomfortably. "I wouldn't say that," he said. "He's always been pretty open to input."

Megan smiled, her eyebrows still elevated. "Then he has an issue with his _brother_ trying to call the shots."

David grimaced, ruefully. "Yeah, that wasn't a good scene, was it?" He rubbed his clean-shaven head, uncomfortably. "Yeah – I get a little sense of – I don't know – competition – between the two of them. I don't know if that's the right term." He looked at Megan. "You're the profiler. You tell us."

Megan shrugged, still smiling. "I'm reserving judgment pending further observation. I have to admit, our boss is a bit hard to read."

"I think Charlie was a little over the line," muttered Granger, quietly, because Don was approaching the conference room.

"I don't think he meant to be," said David, just as quietly. "He just gets really into his – theories."

"I'll say," said Colby. "He left me in the dust on that last analysis. I think I'm gonna have to go back to college if I'm gonna keep working here." The door opened, and Colby raised his voice. "Mornin' boss."

Don Eppes stepped in, closed the door and sat. "Morning." He took a sip of his coffee and eyed his team. As SAC, he supervised several agents in the L.A. office, but he also took on the higher profile cases with his own team. Of the three of them, only David had been there for any length of time – for a year now. Colby Granger was a new junior agent, and Megan Reeves was their new profiler. Her addition was taking the most time for Don to assimilate; he missed Terri, his former profiler, and he was still trying to get a feel for Reeves. She was sharp; he'd figured that out already – but he also got the uncomfortable feeling that she'd figured him out too. He was sure those green eyes didn't miss much.

At the moment, his team didn't have an assignment of its own; instead they were assisting with several investigations being run by the other agents in the office. Most of the cases that Don reserved for those other agents fell into one of three categories – one, they were not true cases but simple requests for information or initial probes, two, they were long-term grind-through-the-paperwork exercises like investigations for tax fraud, or thirdly, they were cases that were being run by another agency, like the DEA, and Don was loaning out an agent to help. He reserved the tougher, higher profile cases for his own team, but at the moment, there were none. It was a slow period, and during those times, Don usually held a two or three-hour meeting in the morning with his team to go over all of the activities being pursued by the other agents, to see if they could make suggestions or otherwise help move things along. He wasn't crazy about that part of the job, but took it seriously, just like he did any other aspect of his assignment. David was a trooper; he participated in the sometimes mind-numbing reviews without complaint, and so did the other two, for that matter, although reviewing progress reports was not really what they had hired Megan for, and Don knew the meetings drove Colby crazy – the young agent preferred action to paperwork. They hadn't even started yet that morning, and Colby was already restlessly shifting his muscular frame in his chair, and running a hand through his sandy hair. Megan had picked up on it; she was watching Colby fidget with an amused smile. It had only been a couple of working days since they had closed their last case, and they were all ready for the next one.

It came sooner than Don thought. A few minutes into the review, the conference room phone rang, and Don picked up the receiver.

"Don." His boss, Assistant Director Merrick, was on the line. "I tried your desk phone and it transferred to Marcy. She said you were in the conference room with your team. I'd like you all to come upstairs to my office."

"Sure," murmured Don. "What's this about?"

"I have some gentlemen here from the football commissioner's office. They have a need for a discreet investigation. Please limit this to your immediate team – we'll fill you in when you get up here."

"Be right up." Don hung up the phone, and looked at his team. "We need to go up to A.D. Merrick's office. It looks like we have ourselves a case."

Colby shot to his feet, eagerly. "Okay."

Don caught Megan's amused glance and looked blandly at his junior agent, and decided to bait him a little. Instead of rising, he leaned back in his chair. "Colby, would you rather stay here and start on the case reviews?"

"Nope, let's go," said Colby emphatically and just a little too quickly, and the rest of them snorted with laughter.

...

Larry Fleinhardt leaned back in his chair and watched his friend and colleague's frantic scribbles with a perplexed expression. The soft morning light outside didn't stream directly through the windows of Charlie's Cal Sci campus office; the sun was currently on the other side of the building and the office lights were off, so the room wasn't as bright as it could be, but Charlie seemed oblivious to the relative dimness. He gyrated between frenetic jabs with the chalk on his chalkboard and quick scribbles in a notebook on his desk. "Charles," Larry said, "where is the proverbial fire?"

"Wait," said Charlie. "Just wait."

Larry sighed, but waited patiently, eyes narrowed as he tried to follow the progression of equations streaming from his friend's hand. They had known each other for several years; from the day that Charlie had entered Princeton at the ripe age of 13, a young prodigy ready to pursue his first degree in mathematics, and Larry, his teacher, had taken him under his wing. He had become a mentor to the boy, who was socially rather backward despite his brilliance – and they had been friends ever since. Charlie was more than a friend, really, he was a now a colleague, who in spite of his youth – and because of his brilliance – had become a tenured professor of mathematics at Cal Sci, where Larry currently taught physics, and so technically was now a fellow professor, no longer a protégé. That didn't mean that Charlie still didn't seek advice from time to time, nor did it mean that Larry didn't offer it. He suspected now that his role as a sounding-board might be taken advantage of once again; Charlie had been preoccupied and moody since last week, and had thrown himself completely into his current mathematical analysis. A retreat into a mathematical problem for Charlie could mean anything, however, Larry reminded himself. It could mean that Charlie was stressed over something and looking for escape; or it could simply mean he'd had another flash of insight and was eager to capture it on paper. Or both.

At length Charlie took a deep breath and stood back, examining what was on the chalkboard, and then, satisfied, turned and jotted down a few final notes. He wiped his brow and sat down with a sigh across the desk. "I'm really behind," he admitted. "I worked that case for Don the last couple of weeks, I've got tests to prepare and papers to grade, and I've got a presentation to get ready for the grant commission's visit next week." His shoulders slumped and his gaze wandered away, out the window.

Larry studied him for a moment; his friend was young, to be sure, but he looked younger than his years that morning, his slight form clad in jeans and a T-shirt, with a tweed jacket thrown over the outfit in an effort to dress it up. Charlie, with his dark curly hair worn a little on the long side and his boyish features, looked younger than some of his graduate students; in fact, he _was_ younger than some of his graduate students. The pensive uncertain look on his face only exaggerated that impression, and Larry was more certain than ever that something was on his friend's mind. "Do you care to expound?"

Charlie looked at him. "Expound on what?" he asked, trying to sound clueless, and failing utterly. Charlie was a horrible liar. He took in the knowing look on Larry's face and capitulated without much of a fight. "Aw, it was just that case last week… Don and I had a little disagreement."

Larry tented his fingers and pursed his lips. "Apparently more than little – you've been brooding since it happened."

Charlie made a face, but he didn't argue. "Yeah, well, I guess it might have seemed worse than it was." He reddened slightly. "We kind of had a – shouting match – in front of a bunch of Don's agents."

"Charles, it_ is _his team. He calls the shots – he's responsible. If he disagrees with you, you have to acquiesce."

"I know," sighed Charlie, with resignation. "I know that – it just – he was ignoring some plain facts. How can you argue with data?"

"Did he end up making the right call?"

"Yes," muttered Charlie, a bit grudgingly. "But in my defense, he didn't make his game plan clear to me."

"He doesn't have to answer to you, Charles, as much as you want to feel involved," chided Larry gently.

"I know that, too."

"Then what is the issue? Is he still angry?"

Charlie paused and thought about that. "That's the thing. I'm not sure. He came over for the game yesterday, and he seemed fine – but he's so doggone hard to read. He can be so – distant – laid back – cool," he stopped and gestured, looking for another word, and gave up and went on, "you'd never know what he was really thinking."

Larry cocked his head. "And you are afraid that what he really is thinking is…." He paused, waiting for Charlie to complete the sentence.

"I don't know," said Charlie a bit crossly. "But my temporary contract to consult expires in a couple of weeks, and he hasn't said anything about renewing it." His voice dropped. "I'm afraid he's thinking he might not ask me back, after that."

Larry raised his eyebrows. "Well, you do have a lot to do here, you said so yourself. And you seemed perfectly happy in your work before he started asking you to consult. In fact, you've complained more than once about being stretched too thin when you were working some of his cases. This might be a good opportunity to get back to normal."

"Yeah," said Charlie, without enthusiasm.

"You don't sound convinced."

"It's just - ," Charlie paused, sounding wistful. "We've never really gotten along well. When we were younger I just figured it was the five-year age difference, but now – I thought that working together – well, it was a chance to change that. And if we are going to quit working together, for it to end this way, with an argument..."

"You're afraid it will set you back, on a personal level."

Charlie nodded, dejectedly. "Yes. Although it's hard to get set back when you don't even know where you stand to begin with. But, yes."

"I highly doubt either of you would allow that to happen," said Larry firmly. "And you don't even know the outcome of this yet, so you have no reason to stew over it."

Charlie sighed. "You're right." His face brightened, and Larry felt a warm sense of satisfaction. He'd offered some good advice, managed to bolster his friend's mood... he stopped congratulating himself as he saw Charlie's eyes track over his head, and heard a cheerful female voice behind him.

"Hi Charlie," chirped Amita Ramanujan, and Larry sighed. "Hi, Larry." _Amita_ was the reason Charlie had perked up, not because of the profoundness of his advice. Larry had no doubt that the pretty young graduate student and Charlie were becoming good friends – although as professor and student, being friends was all that was allowed, by school policy. Sometimes Larry wondered, though, if there was something more there…

"Hi Amita," Charlie said, flashing a grin. "How's the combinatorics queen?"

She flushed prettily, smiling. "Good, thanks." Her eyes tracked toward the chalk board, with interest. "What are you working on?"

"I'm glad you asked," Charlie said, rising and indicating the board with a flourish. "You know the data synthesis project that we're proposing to the grant commission next week? " Amita stepped forward, eyes bright with interest, and Larry rose quietly and made for the door, completely unnoticed by the other two, who were already immersed in Charlie's analysis.

"Ah, the thankless life of a mentor," Larry sighed and shook his head, as he stepped out into the hallway.

...

Don stepped into A.D. Merrick's office followed by his team members, who slipped in behind him and shut the door. Two men in suits rose from the chairs in front of Merrick's desk, and Don extended a hand. "Don Eppes," he said simply as they shook, and Merrick qualified the introduction.

"Don is SAC of the L.A. office," said Merrick, "and these are members of his team – Agents Sinclair, Granger, and Reeves."

One of the men nodded. "Mike Pierce; and this is Corey Reardon. We're from the NFL Commissioner's office. " He indicated a chair near him in front of Merrick's desk, and Don sat. Pierce and Reardon took chairs on either side of him, and Megan, David and Colby clustered around a side table with two chairs, Colby leaning on the edge of the table. The two men looked uncomfortable and stiff, and Don raised his eyebrows and looked at Merrick, who gave a nearly imperceptible shrug.

The one named Pierce cleared his throat. "This is a very sensitive matter. We need to have your assurances that you will keep this investigation confidential and not speak to the press until the commissioner gives permission to do so."

Don looked at Merrick, who shook his head and sighed. "I've already told you, gentlemen, that this team will be discreet. You_ are_ dealing with the FBI – and one of the top offices in the country, at that."

Pierce nodded, and waved a hand. "I know." He looked at Don. "Of course, you will see the need to keep this from the press, but the investigation will be completely transparent to the subjects. I realize that is a little bit of a twist on your usual method of operating."

The man's overly circuitous route to the point was starting to irritate Don, and he leaned back in his chair and said coolly, "Not necessarily. How about we start with what you want investigated?" He looked at Reardon, encouragingly, but Reardon hadn't said a word yet, and apparently wasn't about to start.

"Yes, well," sighed Pierce, with a pained expression. "We need you to investigate the L.A. Warriors. Specifically, we suspect members of the team are using banned substances. It would be similar to the Bureau's recent investigation of certain major league baseball players."

Don stared at him and thought of Charlie; and his statements about the Warriors the day before. '_They shouldn't be here… a statistical anomaly…._' Aloud, he said, "They've been tested, right? Isn't that routine?"

"Yes," said Pierce, "and the tests have all come back negative. However, there are signs that members of the team could be using steroids. Aggressive behavior, weight gain – excessive muscle mass generated in a relatively short period of time –,"

"They_ are_ football players," interjected Colby. "They weight train, and they're paid to be aggressive." Skepticism was plain on his face.

"Yes," said Pierce. "It is possible – especially in light of the clean tests – that they are legitimately performing at that level. To have so many record-holders on a given team, however – superstars who suddenly came out of relative obscurity – well, there are a lot of rumors swirling and we need to look into it, but that is precisely why we need to keep this low-profile. We don't want to falsely accuse innocent men, and taint the reputation of the league if there is no reason to. We have spoken to the team owner and manager, and they have promised that the team will give us their full cooperation."

Colby couldn't help himself. "By that you mean they're going to hand over their 'roids if we ask them nicely." He delivered that with as straight a face as he could.

Pierce looked at him as if suddenly discovering something foul in his coffee mug. "If you are insinuating that the subjects of the investigation would know they are being investigated, then, yes. There's really no way around that. These things have a way of surfacing once you start digging into their acquaintances and activities outside of the game. It makes no sense to try to hide the investigation from them." He sniffed and turned to Don. "We would have oversight as to how the investigative findings would be used, of course."

Don raised his eyebrows. "Of course. You have contacts for us?"

Pierce nodded. "Yes, and some other information, including a complete list of players and staff." He tapped a thick file on A.D. Merrick's desk. "It's all in here. There is also a need for expediency – playoffs are about to start and we are just weeks away from the Superbowl. If there are players who should be disqualified and suspended – well, it would be best to find out as early as possible, before the big game is played. It wouldn't be good for the sport to have to vacate a Superbowl win."

Don nodded. "We understand."

Pierce and Reardon rose from their chairs, as a unit. "Very well, then," said Pierce. "We appreciate you taking the case, and we'll be in touch." Reardon nodded – looked about to finally say something, and then thought better of it, and followed Pierce out of the room.

Megan watched Reardon go. "I thought he'd never shut up."

Colby snorted a laugh, and Merrick looked at him disapprovingly. "I could say the same for you, Granger. You appear to have a soft spot in your heart for football players. Is there a reason I should pull you from this case?"

Colby reddened, and looked at Don, then back at Merrick. "No, sir," he muttered, chastened. "Not at all."

"Good," said Merrick. He looked at Don, who had risen and picked up the file. "You all know the need to be discreet – if you need a conference room where you can meet in confidence you can come up here and use mine. Agent Eppes – anything else?"

"Yeah," said Don. "I'd like to include one more team member – I'd like to call my brother in on this one."

Merrick nodded, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. "I was going to suggest that, myself. We should probably have brought that up while they were here. Let me clear it with Pierce, first."

Don nodded and filed out of the room after his team. It was an obvious move, really, to call in Charlie – he'd already pegged some of the players' performances as statistically significant and could probably tell them which ones to consider first. Why then, was Don so reluctant to do it? He'd gone back and forth on the idea the whole time Pierce was talking and finally, half-heartedly, had made his request to add Charlie at the very end of the meeting – after Pierce, the man who had to approve it, was already gone. It was almost as if he was wishing Pierce would say no – and by not asking him face-to -face, he was making it easier for Pierce to do just that when Merrick made the request. Don looked at the back of Megan's head as he walked down the hall, and wondered what the profiler would have to say about that one.

...

End, Chapter 2


	3. Chapter 3

Camouflage

_Author's note: this one's a bit longer. Whump alert - and happy weekend._

Chapter 3

Without looking up, Charlie called out at the soft knock at his office door. "Come in!"

He was sitting at his desk, working, and he scribbled a few last notes and then glanced up. Surprise crossed his face but it was replaced almost immediately by a smile. "Don – hi! What are you doing here?"

His brother pulled up a chair and sat, with the lazy grace of an athlete. He'd always been good at sports, Charlie reflected. In fact, Don had even played minor league baseball for a while. Good at sports, good with the girls, good with people in general. Everything Charlie wasn't. In spite of the international acclaim his prowess with mathematics had won him and the fact that that they were now both adults, he perpetually felt as though he was still trying to measure up to big brother.

"Hey, Charlie." Don's eyes strayed to the pile of papers on the desk. "Pretty busy, huh?"

Charlie eyed him. Don was busy himself and didn't usually come by just to chat, but Charlie responded in kind. "Yeah. We've got a big presentation coming up for the grant committee next week. It will determine our main sources of research funding for the year. Lots of dollars riding on it. I'm doing my own presentation, and helping out the physics department with some others."

"Sounds impressive." Don stood. "Well, I was hoping maybe you could give us some help with a case, but it appears as though you're pretty busy."

He sounded almost relieved, and Charlie interjected quickly. "No, no problem. I can help – what do you need?"

Don hesitated for a split second, and Charlie looked at him encouragingly. Maybe this meant that their argument hadn't been such a big deal after all – that their working relationship could continue. He wasn't quite sure why it meant that much to him – but it did, and he held his breath until Don sat again, with a sigh.

"Okay, yeah," Don said. "This case might take several weeks, but I don't think we need you the whole time, anyway. We just need a jump-start. Remember what you were saying about the Warriors the other day?"

Charlie felt just a twinge of disappointment at the mention that his role would be limited, but it was overridden by his relief at being included in another case, and he listened carefully as Don outlined the investigation and his conversation with Pierce from the NFL commissioner's office. "So we were wondering," Don concluded, "if you could do an analysis that would point out who the most likely users would be – if in fact there are players who are actually juicing – to see how deep this goes. There are the obvious superstars who get a lot of media attention just because of their type of position. We will of course take a look at them. But there might be others who are also performing above the norm, but don't get noticed as much by the media because their positions aren't as glamorous as, say, a running back or a receiver. We want to try to identify anyone performing above the norm and add them to the list – question them, get some surveillance on them; see if they have any common contacts. If we narrow down our search toward the beginning we'll be a lot more effective, but I don't want to leave out any possibilities, either. We can get you physical history on the players from the team doctor and performance data for each player."

"Sure," said Charlie. "Whatever you need. I can take the player stats and come up with some likely prospects – keeping the initial list relatively broad, and then we can try to draw some relationship matrices and try to narrow the group down from there. I can do that first study, and then I can refine it as you get further into the investigation and gather more data." That last statement was a hint – Charlie was trying to insinuate that he might be needed for longer than just an initial consult. The longer the better; it would give Don and him time to get back in the swing of working together, time for the memories of that argument to fade… "By the way," he added, "my consulting contract needs to be renewed – it's expiring in a couple of weeks."

Don stood again, his face inscrutable. "Yeah, we'll deal with that a little later. You should be done with this before then. Thanks for the help, Chuck."

"Yeah," said Charlie, his smile fading as he watched his brother walk toward the door, and not because of Don's use of the despised nickname. Deal with it later? That didn't bode well. Neither did his brother's overly polite, distant demeanor. "No problem."

No problem. Now, _there_ was an understatement.

...

Tony Rubacek surveyed the scene in the locker room and beamed. The excitement in the room was palpable – they were still pumped from the big win on Sunday. "Hey Worthless!" he roared, and reached out and knuckled Jack Worth's wet scalp as he passed. "Way to go, you mother! Good practice!"

"You're gonna need another nickname for him, Coach Ruby," retorted Jarvis Trent, as he pulled a shirt out of his locker. "He sure ain't 'Worthless' no more. More like 'Worthy.'"

Two towel-clad players picked it up, and began kowtowing in Worth's direction, snickering. "We're not Worthy; we're not Worthy!"

"Shut the hell up," snarled Worth as he maneuvered an impressive bulk past them, but he was grinning.

Tony's own grin faded a bit and he clapped his hands loudly as he spied their general manager, Clayton Mansell, coming through the main locker room entrance. "Okay, guys, listen up! Mr. Mansell has a few things to say to us." He could see some other people gathered in the doorway behind Mansell, but they stayed there as Mansell strode to the center of the room.

"Team. Warriors." Clayton Mansell nodded at the men, and waited a moment as several players shuffled around the corner from an adjoining locker room to join the group. He was wearing a suit and his dark hair was groomed carefully – but that was his usual look. Even when he dressed down, he looked like he was ready for a round of golf at the country club. A few of the men shot curious glances at a small group of people waiting in the doorway. Mansell glanced at the strangers; then cleared his throat. "I told you this Sunday, and I'll say it again – that was an outstanding game. You have successfully won your division and secured home team advantage for the playoffs. You are to be congratulated – you've worked hard for this and you deserve it. With success, however, comes scrutiny and speculation. There are some people – in the media and otherwise – who are maintaining that we are _too_ successful. You've heard the rumors – that we have some players – or maybe even the entire team – taking banned substances to enhance performance. Now you know, and I know, that you've all been tested several times and have come up clean. However, to put all rumors to bed once and for all, the NFL Commissioner's office has decided to conduct an inquiry and has called in the FBI to assist, similar to the type of investigation that was done for major league baseball."

Mansell waved a hand behind him at the entrance, and the group stepped forward into the room – save for a woman, who remained respectfully a step or two beyond the doorway. Tony knew the players were accustomed to women in the locker room – reporters, male and female, had access after the games, but the woman obviously felt a little uncomfortable. Tony figured the scene was probably a little overwhelming for someone not accustomed to it – a lot of men in only towels, a lot of muscle. The room reeked of male sweat and testosterone.

He looked back as Mansell continued. "This is Special Agent in Charge Don Eppes, and his team – agents Sinclair, Granger, and Reeves, and his brother, Charles Eppes. They are FBI, and will be working with us on the investigation. If they come to you with questions, I want you to cooperate and be honest with them. This will be a quiet inquiry – they will not talk to the press about it and neither should you. Once they have concluded their investigation, the NFL Commissioner's office will announce the fact that they conducted it _and_ announce the results, all at the same time. While I want you to cooperate, I also do not want this to be a distraction. Just answer their questions and focus on the next game. This is not a negative for us – it will be a benefit. We have nothing to hide and I'd like the world to know that." He looked around the room. "Are there any questions?"

Across the room, Colby Granger sidled next to David, trying to stifle a grin. "I've got a question," he murmured, with a nod toward Charlie, who had found himself next to Jack Worth and had tilted his head back to look up at the mountain of a man beside him. "Do you think Worth is two of Charlie, or three?"

David let his eyes slide sideways, and had to smile – the disparity in size was almost comical – as was the look of awe on Charlie's face.

"Charlie's maybe – what – five foot seven? One hundred forty pounds, tops?" Colby whispered. "Worth – look at the guy – he's gotta be six-six, well over 300 pounds."

"I know," said David softly, with a hint of a grin playing around his lips. "These guys make even _you_ look like you haven't gone through puberty yet."

Colby gave him a nasty look. "Thanks a lot."

Tony Rubacek didn't get to be a head coach in the NFL without being a keen reader of people. He was watching the agents' faces, and as he saw the smiles on the faces of the two agents talking across the room, he relaxed a bit. They didn't appear to be uptight types with an ax to grind. The guy that was introduced as Charles Eppes also didn't look very threatening – in fact, he looked like an awestruck kid as he peered up at Worth. Tony had talked to Mansell about the investigation beforehand, and knew that Charles was the SAC's brother from Cal Sci; he guessed that maybe the head agent had called him in as a favor, to give him a chance to see an NFL team close up – why else would anyone bring his kid brother to an investigation like this? His eyes strayed to the SAC. Don Eppes might be another story – he carried himself with cool confidence and his face was unreadable. Maybe a problem, and maybe not. The woman in the doorway looked sharp, but the fact that she'd showed the half-clad guys some respect by staying in the doorway meant that maybe she was probably someone easy enough to work with. All in all, they weren't giving Tony any vibes that they carried pre-conceived notions about guilt or innocence; in other words, this wouldn't be a witch hunt. That was a good thing – maybe this wouldn't be so bad, after all. That thought lasted all of five seconds.

Don Eppes stepped forward. "Thank you, Mr. Mansell. We will try to be as quick as possible, but this will be a thorough investigation and it begins now." He waved a paper in the air. "This is a search warrant, to search your lockers. It will commence as soon as you leave the locker room, and we will require a search of your person and any bags when you leave, starting immediately. "

"Aw, shit," said Tony under his breath, and he felt a surge of annoyance. He wasn't really afraid of the agents finding steroids or illegal drugs, because use of those substances would have surfaced when the players were tested – but who knew what they might find in the lockers? Team rules did not allow alcohol or weapons in the locker room. They wouldn't be an issue with regards to the investigation - guns and alcohol were certainly not illegal as long as the weapons were registered and the person had a permit, but if they were found in the locker room, it would be a violation of_ team_ rules. At the start of the season, Tony came down hard on the players as far as those rules went and carried out regular inspections, but as the season wore on he had had slacked off – and he hadn't done a locker check in a while. If a player was found to be flaunting team rules, Tony might have to consider a game suspension, and he couldn't afford to suspend anyone, not now, with the playoffs looming. But if something was found and he _didn't_ punish the rule-breaker, the guys wouldn't take the rules seriously in the future. This was putting him in a bad position. It would have been nice to have some goddamned notice...

Don Eppes looked at Mansell. "I understand that there is an adjoining locker room around the corner, there -," he nodded at the far end of the room, "- with its own exit. I will station two agents in that room, and the rest of us will remain here. We will search the players as they leave. When all of the players are out, we will start the locker search in this room – you are welcome to observe."

Mansell's jaw was tight and Tony figured that he hadn't known about the search warrant either, but all Mansell said was, "Very well," and to the team, "You heard the man. Let's clean up and get out of here, and stop on the way out so they can check your bags. Good practice today."

...

At the far end of the room, Leshawn Wilkinson gave Joey Cancetta and Deondre Wiseman a pointed look, and then walked quickly around the corner into the adjoining locker room, hoping they got his hint and followed him before the other players and agents joined them. To his relief, they did, and as soon as they were out of earshot, he hissed, "I got a used needle in my bag."

Deondre's eyes grew wide, and he whispered back, "Magic?" and at the same time Joey hissed back, "You dumb-ass!"

"I didn't have time, I was running late to get here, and then I forgot to get it out of there," Leshawn whispered, and they moved to Deondre's locker as other players began to file into the room behind them. "Coach checks the lockers sometimes, but he never checks our bags – I figured I'd have a chance to get rid of it later."

"Listen," said Joey softly, with a quick glance behind them. "Take it out of your bag and leave it in your locker."

"But my locker's in the other room - that's where they're gonna start searching," whispered Wilkerson.

"Trust me," said Joey. "I got a plan. You can't walk out with it – they'll search you. Just get it out of your bag and leave it there – hide it in your locker, but someplace you can grab it quick. Meet us in the back hallway." Other players were starting to drift within hearing, and Joey grinned, like they were talking about going out for a drink or a bite to eat, and slapped Wilkinson on the shoulder and said in a louder voice. "Sounds great, man. Meet you outside."

Leshawn tried to muster a grin and gave them a cocky nod, and strolled off toward his locker, passing Agents Granger and Sinclair on the way. He gave them a nod too, trying to appear cool even though his stomach was flipping. If they got their hands on that syringe and tested any residue inside... well, Leshawn was no chemist, but even he knew that the find would blow this whole thing sky high. A drop of sweat rolled down his neck as he headed for his locker – under the watchful eyes of the Eppes brothers and the woman agent.

There were players on either side of him, and it really wasn't too hard to block the view of most of his locker with his body, unzip the inner pocket in his bag and slip out the syringe. He wasn't quite sure where to put it, but couldn't afford to rummage around in his locker too much, so, with his hands still inside the bag, he slid the syringe into a dirty sock and then pulled the sock out of the bag and tossed it on the floor of the locker. He had no idea what Joey had in mind, but if it didn't work and they ended up searching his locker maybe they wouldn't look too hard at a sweaty, stinky sock. That done, he dressed quickly and shouldered his workout bag, and headed for the door.

There was a line there already, and the head agent, Eppes himself, was there with the woman. She went through the bags while Eppes patted the players down, and Leshawn was uncomfortably aware of the SAC's cool gaze, appraising them as they stood in line. Leshawn forced himself to make eye contact and gave Eppes a nod, and then let his gaze wander over to the agent's brother. He looked like a college kid; he probably wasn't much older than Leshawn himself - and Leshawn was only two years out of Alabama. The young man was making his way through the lockers, which were marked with plates with the player's names and numbers, and was checking off the names against a copy of the roster and a schematic of the locker room. Leshawn watched him idly until it was his turn, and as soon as he was through the check he headed for the stairs, trying not to look like he was in a hurry until he was out of sight.

He made his way around to the back hallway outside the other locker entrance; the back hallway was the one they went down to reach the 'tunnel' – the hall that led to the stadium entrance. Joey, Deondre, and Jack Worth were waiting for him there. They had gone out directly into the back hallway through the door in the back locker room; the one where the agents named Granger and Sinclair were stationed. Not too many others had gone out that way; the front locker room door, the one that Leshawn had used, was the fastest way to the front of the stadium and the parking lot. Anyone who had come out the back locker room had already wound around the other way through the hallways, back to the front, to get to the parking lot – no one had any reason to linger in the back hallway but them. The group was alone.

...

Colby and David got done with the players in the back room first, and Don had Colby step in with Megan and finish processing the last of the players in the front locker room and strolled over to David, stripping off his latex gloves. Over David's shoulder, he could see Charlie making his way down the row of lockers, checking off names on the roster. "Back room's clear," David said. "They all were all clean; so were their bags."

"They're clean so far on this end, too," said Don. "As soon as Megan and Colby get done checking players, we'll start going through the lockers."

David looked back over his shoulder. "What's Charlie doing?"

Don shrugged. "I think he's got a diagram of the lockers; he's checking off the names against the locker positions. I think he's trying to establish some kind of relationship matrix. He was asking the coach questions about which players hang together."

David's eyes strayed to Clayton Mansell and Tony Rubacek, who stood watching Megan and Colby's search of the last few players. "I take it they're sticking around for the locker search."

Don's eyes followed his. "Yeah. I told Mansell I needed him, and two of them are even better. We need witnesses from the team if we find anything."

...

"What took you so long?" said Worth, as Leshawn walked up. Worth looked agitated; the others had probably already told him about the syringe. He played defensive line, and was as big and mean as they came – and had a hair-trigger temper. Leshawn wondered if it was the Magic that made him so mean; steroids were supposed to do that to a person – although none of them really knew if the stuff they called Magic _was_ some new kind of steroid. Worth was pacing and he glared at Leshawn, but Leshawn was a defensive end, and even if not as big as Worth, was known to be pretty mean and aggressive himself, and he glared back.

"There was a long line at the other door," he said.

"It's okay – we can't do anything until the rest of the team clears out anyway," said Joey, matter-of-factly. Deondre was silent; he looked scared. "Look, here's how it goes," Joey said. "They're gonna start in the front locker room."

"Yeah, and that doesn't help, 'cause that's where my locker is," shot back Leshawn.

"Hear me out," said Joey. "You go back around through the hallway to the front door – wait until everyone that is leaving is out of there, then get as close to the door as you can without them seeing you, and wait just outside. We'll go to the back door and make some kind of noise in the back locker room – maybe run in and slam a locker door shut, then run out of there. I guarantee, they'll all run into that room to see what made the noise, and then you duck in the front room, grab your syringe out of your locker and get back out the front door." He handed Leshawn a plain gray hooded jacket. "Put this on and put the hood over your head. If they come back in before you make it out of there maybe they won't see your face. You can outrun anyone in there. Hell, you can outrun anyone on the planet except Deondre and me."

"I don't know," said Leshawn doubtfully.

"Look, what other choice do you got?" said Joey. "Just grab the needle, get out and run down the hall. Once you're away, take off the jacket and stuff it in your bag – you don't want the cameras in the parking lot to record you coming out wearing this jacket, especially if they get a look at you in it. Just walk normally out to your car, like you always do after practice. Take a drive and ditch the needle on the way home."

Leshawn looked at him. "Who's gonna handle the other end? You know, making the noise."

Joey looked at Deondre and Worth. Leshawn could see him thinking. Worth was quick for short bursts, but a lot slower over longer distances than the rest of them because of his size, and Deondre, who could run like the wind, looked too scared. "I'll go in," said Joey. "I'll slam a locker door or something to make some noise, and run out. They'll chase me, but I'm fast enough that I should be able to get out of there and down the hall and around the corner before they can get out the door to see who it was. Deondre and Worthy -," and Jack Worth cracked a small grin at the use of his new nickname, " – before I go in, you two go down the front hall almost all the way to the entrance and stop there, like you just stopped to bullshit after practice for a minute. Leshawn and me will go blowing past you – he'll probably be first, because he's coming out the front door and it's closer. When the feds come running up and they ask if you saw anyone, you tell 'em no one came running out that way. They'll turn around and run the other way toward the tunnel – or even if they don't, it'll at least slow them down for a minute while they talk to you. It'll be enough for Leshawn and me to get out to the parking lot." He looked at Leshawn. "Once we hit the lot, we slow down and walk, like we're just headin' to our cars after practice."

"Well, if Deondre and me are standin' in the hall, what if they think it's us that made the noise?" said Worth.

"They won't. You'll be just standing there, not breathing heavy like you were running, and just standing there will make you look like you're innocent. Besides, they'll know it had to be someone fast, and that rules you out, Worthy." He punched Worth in the shoulder, trying to be funny, but Worth growled at him. He didn't like being told what to do.

"Okay," said Deondre, shifting from foot to foot, nervously. "They should be about cleared out of there. We should hurry up and do this."

"Let's go look," said Joey.

He seemed almost too cool – like he was enjoying the game, Leshawn thought, or maybe he was just pretending to be cool to calm Deondre down. They headed down the hall, slowing as they approached the back door of the locker room.

Joey looked at Leshawn. "Okay," he said with a jerk of his head toward the hallway to their right. It led toward the front of the stadium, and from it, a branch led back around to the other locker room door. "Get going. Walk around and park yourself outside that other door and text me when you're there and ready. Listen for the bang, then go in."

Leshawn nodded and took off. Joey knew it would only take him seconds to get around to the other side, and waited for his text before he approached the door to the back locker room. The other two came with him, Worth crowding him, Deondre hanging back. "Shh," said Joey. "Let's take a look. Then you two need to get out of here and out to the front."

He eased open the door, and immediately shut it again. "Shit," he whispered.

Worth had been able to see in, but his big body blocked Deondre's view. "What?" hissed Deondre, licking his lips nervously.

"That agent's brother is in there," whispered Joey. "He's walking around writing down locker numbers or something. We're gonna have to wait until he leaves and goes back into the front locker room."

Worth smiled; a gleam in his eye. "Let me handle this. This is right up my alley."

Joey scowled at him and hissed. "No way. You're not quick enough."

Worth glowered at him, and spoke in a stage whisper. "Who says you get to call all the shots? I'm tired of you tellin' us what to do."

Joey glared back at him. "You're too slow. You'll get caught."

Worth shook his head vehemently. "No, I won't. I'll hit the light switch so he can't see who it is, and rush in and knock the little puke down. It'll hold them up longer – by the time they pick up his pieces off the floor, we'll all be outta here. "

Deondre's eyes widened. "That's assault, man. If they catch you –,"

"You know what?" Joey broke in, scowling. "Screw it." He glared at Worth. "If the asshole wants to get himself arrested, fine." He pointed a finger in Worth's face. "Just keep your trap shut and don't sell out the rest of us when they catch you."

"No worries," said Worth smugly.

"Come on," hissed Joey, and took off down the hall, with Deondre at his heels.

Jack Worth eased the door open a crack. The young man was standing a few feet away with his back to him, and the light switch for the locker room was just inside the door. Jack knew it was nearly pitch black in the back room when the light was out; there were no windows. There would just be some faint light from the other locker room around the corner – just enough to see his target. As a lineman, he was at his best over short distances – quick powerful lunges across the line – distances just like this one. With a smile, he eased the door open a little further, reached in and doused the light.

...

Charlie looked at the list of names on his chart and frowned. He had wandered into the back locker room by himself, looking at who they were assigned to. The lockers were not arranged either by the player's number or by alphabetical order. The coach had given him a somewhat nebulous response when he asked them if certain groups of players tended to hang together, and whether they were allowed to choose their own locker location. Rubacek had alluded to some kind of restriction, but then said apart from that, the players could pick their own locker spots. Before he could elaborate, the body searches at the door began and the coach excused himself and went over to observe. Charlie had contented himself with trying to watch the players' behavior as they lined up to be checked, but he wasn't familiar enough with them yet to know who he was really watching. In street clothes without numbered jerseys it was hard to tell who was who, and even harder to tell which players might truly be friends, and which ones were just being social with a teammate. Besides, he was no trained observer of human behavior – far from it.

He had spent some time looking over player stats before he got there, and had come up with a group of four players who seemed to be inordinately gifted, and another four or so who were good performers with stats above the average, but not quite the standouts that the first group was. There was some overlap between the two subsets, and Charlie was looking for other factors that might unite a group of them – such as friendship, or association outside the practice field. If some of them were taking some kind of performance-enhancing drug, their shared illicit activity might bring them together...

"Of course!" he muttered to himself as he looked again at the roster, and checked the names against the locker chart. The players were divided in the locker room by offense and defense – with the defense out in the first room, and the offense in the back room, where Charlie was now. That way the two groups could work with their respective coaches at practice and half-time without interrupting each other. That must have been the restriction the coach was referring to – unfortunately, that arrangement could split the suspects up into two groups at least, which muddied the waters. The locker arrangements probably weren't going to tell him much. He sighed. It was probably better to rely on surveillance outside the stadium to see who spent time together – although now that the players knew the investigation was on, they might be careful not to associate with each other. "Heisenberg," he muttered to himself. "An object that is being observed behaves differently..."

His musings were cut short as the lights suddenly went out. "Hey, I'm in here!" he protested, whirling around. The lights had been bright and his eyes were having a hard time adjusting, but he could just make out a dark form by the doorway a few feet away – and then, nearly as soon as his brain registered that someone was there, the form was on him, a big black mass rushing toward him in the gloom. He gasped and backed up a step instinctively and tried to duck out of the way, but the lockers were behind him, and his assailant hit him like a freight train in the chest. He slammed into the locker doors with a bang, and the world went black.

...

End, Chapter 3


	4. Chapter 4

Camouflage

Chapter 4

It was almost too easy.

Leshawn set his bag down and slipped on the hooded sweatshirt and listened, standing just outside the open front locker room door. He heard the metallic bang of the locker, and then the exclamations from the others inside as the agents and Mansell and Rubacek rushed to the back room. Leshawn was inside in a flash and grabbed the sock with the syringe, then carefully shut his locker door, which made just a slight metallic click. Thankfully, he was only a few steps from the exit, and then he was out. He grabbed his bag outside the door and was running down the hall before anyone got back in the room, he was sure of it. The hooded sweatshirt had been an unnecessary precaution, and as he reached the end of the hall near the stadium entrance and saw Joey and Deondre standing there, he stripped it off and stuffed it in his bag, along with the sock-clad syringe. He was a little surprised to see Joey instead of Worth, but he played it cool. "Out clean," he said, with a low slow five to them both, as he passed. "Later." He was nearly free, and he forced himself to walk more slowly yet and headed for the parking lot. _Get to his car, get out of there, and get rid of the syringe…_

He could hear the heavier footsteps of Worth coming up the hall behind him, and he glanced back to see the man's face, flushed with excitement under his reddish-brown beard. "You shoulda seen it," Worth gasped in a stage whisper, his shoulders shaking with laughter, and he smacked his palm with his fist. "Bam! Little sucker didn't even know what hit him."

Joey whispered back as he passed, "Okay. Keep it down. Head out like nothing happened. We'll talk later – I just got a text from Trainer Frank – we're gonna meet at Reese's in an hour. Me and Deondre will be right behind you."

...

Don was the first one into the back room, but he had no idea where the light switch was, and stopped dead, trying to get his eyes to adjust. "Charlie? Was that you?"

The others ran in behind him, and Rubacek darted over and hit the light switch, and Don's stomach flipped. Charlie was crumpled in a heap, slumped at the foot of a set of lockers, with a trickle of blood running down one side of his face, and a welt on the opposite cheekbone. His eyes were just flickering open, and his chest heaved in an odd manner, but no sound came out. Don ran to him and dropped to his side, as Rubacek ran up and knelt on Charlie's other side.

Charlie's eyes were open now, wide with panic. His chest was still heaving, and Rubacek said, "Calm down - you just got the wind knocked out of you. Happens to my guys all the time. Relax, and you'll start breathing again."

Charlie finally took in a bit of air and exhaled, and then again, until he was breathing raggedly but more normally. The panic in his expression subsided, but he still looked dazed, and Rubacek examined the side of his head, gently parting the dark hair. "He's got a good knot and a gash there." He glanced upward at the lockers. One of the doors was dented, and there was a smear of blood on the handle. "His head probably hit the locker door handle." He looked at Charlie. "Did you trip?"

Of the group in the room, Colby was the closest to the corner near the front locker room. He heard a slight sound in the other room, but he was straining to hear Charlie's response, and the soft click didn't quite register in his conscious thought.

"No," gasped Charlie; finally finding his voice. He waved a hand toward the back doorway, wincing at the movement. "Someone – tackled me."

"What?!" exclaimed Don.

At the same time, Colby looked at David and hissed, "Shit!" and ran into the other room. David ran after him, and ran back in without him, a moment later. "Colby heard a noise while we were talking. We think someone was just in the other room and they staged this to get us out of there. Colby went out the other door to see if he can catch him – I'm going around the back way." While he was rapping out that explanation, he ran for the back door, jerked it open and was gone.

Don had risen to his feet now, radiating pure fury. He put his face right in Mansell's and jabbed a finger at him. "'Complete cooperation' my ass! What in the hell is this? What's going on here?"

Mansell raised both hands and backed up a step. "I have no idea! What in the hell would make you think that _I_ know? I've been with you the whole time."

Don's eyes narrowed. Over Mansell's shoulder he could see Megan watching him closely, and he ratcheted his anger back with an effort, and spoke through gritted teeth. "One of your players did this – they obviously staged a distraction back here so another one could get something out of his locker in the other room. When we catch them, they'll be headed for prison – for assault, impeding an investigation, and whatever else we can throw at them."

Mansell shrugged. "Fine. I agree with you." He looked at Coach Rubacek, meaningfully. "And whoever was behind this, I don't need them on my team – sneaky-assed bastards." His eyes strayed to Charlie, and Don turned.

Rubacek was helping Charlie up from a slump to a sitting position, and Charlie gasped and reached for his side, stopping short of touching it. His hand hovered over his ribcage for a second; his face white. "Let's take a look at that," Rubacek said, and gently helped Charlie lift his T-shirt. There was large spot in the middle of Charlie's left rib cage where he'd been hit, a center already turning blue, surrounded by white. "Ah, that's a good one." Rubacek pulled out his cell phone. "We always have a team doc around during practice. Let me see if he's still down in his office."

...

After Worth and Wilkinson headed for the parking lot, Joey and Deondre fell into a slow stroll down the hall behind them, Joey talking about what they needed to do to fix a play. Deondre still looked nervous, but he was beginning to relax a little, and when Colby Granger came pounding around a corner behind them, Deondre managed to look as innocently surprised as Joey at the agent's sudden appearance.

Granger gave them a hard look. "Did anyone come running out this way?"

Joey looked confused. "Running? No, we didn't see anyone. What's up?"

Granger paused, as David Sinclair came sprinting around the corner of the back hallway. Sinclair motioned toward Joey and Deondre. "Hold up. I want to have a look at your bags."

Joey protested, but not too stridently. "We were already checked. You guys did it."

"I know," said David, "something happened. We need to do it again." He spoke quietly to Colby. "Help me check these guys out."

Joey shrugged and handed over his bag, and Deondre did the same. "What's going on?" ask Joey.

David didn't answer right away, but at length he straightened, satisfied with his check, and handed the bag to Deondre. He trained a keen eye on Joey and said, "One of our team was just assaulted in the locker room. " He studied the look of surprise on Joey's and Deondre's faces as Colby finished checking Joey's bag, and then said, "Okay, we need to check you, now. Arms out to your sides."

"Wow," said Joey, as he was being patted down, "that's pretty crazy. But why would you think it was one of us two?"

"Proximity," grunted Colby, as he bent to pat Joey's legs. He straightened and looked at David. "He's clean."

David gave Colby a nod. "We've wasted enough time here. Why don't you head on toward the front, toward the parking lot, and I'll circle back through the back tunnel and see where it leads." He looked at Joey and Deondre. "You're free to go. Sorry for the inconvenience."

"That's okay," said Deondre, and Joey added, "No problem, man. I hope you catch him."

They hung together on the way out to the lot, following the agent named Granger, and Joey noted with satisfaction that Worth and Leshawn were already gone. He could see Leshawn's car beyond the lot, rounding the street corner. He was still furious with Worth; the man had taken an unnecessary risk – his action exceedingly aggressive to the point of being irrational. He was worrisome, a loose cannon, but Joey couldn't afford to let his concern show in front of Deondre, who seemed on the verge of panic from the sequence of events. He sent him a sly smile. "All's well that ends well," he murmured. "We'll talk later. See you at Reese's." He gave Deondre a slap on the back, and walked to his car.

...

The doctor was still in his office, and he was down to the locker room within minutes. By this time, Don and Coach Rubacek had gently helped Charlie up, and got him to a bench. Charlie sank slowly onto it with wobbly legs as the doctor walked into the room. Don stepped aside to give him access to the patient and moved next to Megan, but his eyes stayed on Charlie, who was still pale and panting, trying not to breathe too deeply.

She glanced sideways at him. "You okay?"

He looked at her as if seeing her for the first time, and then let out a sigh and ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah, just great. This is starting off well." He frowned and took a couple of steps backward and peered around the corner into the next room, then stepped back to her side.

"I've been keeping an eye on the other room," she said. "Just to make sure no one else comes back in for something out of their locker."

Don nodded. "Thanks," he murmured, then looked over at Charlie. His brother looked miserable, face pinched with pain, as the doctor gently probed his side. Across the locker room, Mansell and Rubacek waited and watched, silently.

The door opened and David stepped in. He caught Don's eye and shook his head. "Nothing," he said with a rueful look. "Colby's on his way back. They got away clean."

"What about surveillance cameras?" Don looked over at Mansell.

Mansell shook his head. "There really aren't as many in the stadium as you'd think. We've got 'em out in the parking lot to prevent car theft, and there are some up on the top floors for the loges, and some around the entrances to the stadium, and the ticket areas. None in here, though, and none in the halls – at least not these halls; not around the locker rooms."

"We'd like the feed from the entrances and the parking lot," said Don.

Mansell nodded. "You got it. Like I said, I don't condone this."

"Neither of us does," chimed in Rubacek. He looked truly upset. "I hope you get the bastards. And if I find out who did this before you do -," he let the statement hang, with a menacing look.

At length, the doctor rose, and spoke to Charlie. "Based on the fact that you blacked out for a moment, and the dizziness and the headache, I'd say you probably have a mild concussion, and I'd bet a day's pay that your ribs are fractured. I've got X-ray equipment down the hall if you want an X-ray here, but I still recommend you get checked out at an emergency room."

Charlie shook his head, just slightly, and carefully. "No thanks," he said. "I'll just wait here until we're done."

"Don, we've got this," David said quietly. "Colby and Megan and I can work with Mr. Mansell and Coach Rubacek and go through these lockers. Why don't you take Charlie to get checked out?"

"I'm fine," said Charlie, trying not to wince as he spoke. He looked rather desperately at Don. "I'm fine, really."

Don regarded him, and shook his head. "No, they're right, Charlie. I'm taking you for some X-rays." Charlie started to protest, but Don ignored him, and looked at Mansell and Rubacek. "I'll be back to talk to you. I want your ideas on who might have done this and why."

Getting Charlie out to the SUV went better than Don thought it might, although it also took some time. Charlie walked slowly; gingerly –and although he appeared a bit dizzy, it seemed to be that his ribs were bothering him more than his head injury. Don kept a hand on his arm, just in case. He was heartened by the fact that the concussion symptoms seemed mild, and even more by the fact that the whole thing seemed to be making his brother cranky – that meant his thought processes were working relatively normally, because Don knew he'd be downright pissed, himself, if it were him. He helped Charlie into the car and shut the passenger door. When he got in on the other side, Charlie said, still scowling, "I'm fine, really. I can even wait out here. You don't have to leave."

Don raised an eyebrow and shot him a glance as he started the vehicle. "Nope. We're going to an ER. You look like hell." He rummaged in the center console and came up with a napkin, and handed it to Charlie.

Charlie took it with a questioning look, and then pulled the visor down to look in the mirror and winced. During the walk to the car his head had started to bleed again, and the blood was trickling down his cheek. He wiped at it, noting that the welt under his left eye was getting more swollen. Don was right; he looked like hell. He felt like hell too, but mostly because of his rib cage; it was throbbing, and he couldn't take a full breath. More than that, though, he felt like hell because _he_ was the reason Don had to leave the investigation – instead of being a help, he was a distraction. Don had to leave to take care of his pain-in-the-ass brother – not that Don gave any indication that he really thought that way – but Charlie couldn't help but feel as though he was getting in the way, here. And he couldn't afford that, not if he wanted Don to consider extending their working relationship. He had to show he was invaluable – not a liability.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled.

"What?" said Don sending him an incredulous glance while throwing the SUV into gear. "What are you sorry about?"

"I don't know," Charlie sighed, and then grimaced as he tried to pull the seatbelt around him, and found a new torture as it pressed against his injured ribcage. "I didn't want you to have to leave because of me."

"Charlie," Don sighed and shook his head. "Don't get all mopey on me. It's the least I could do – and it's not a big deal. Colby and David and Megan are perfectly capable of handling a locker search." He glanced at him. "I'll find this guy, don't worry. Do you remember anything about him?"

Charlie closed his eyes, trying to visualize the sequence of events, and saw the big dark mass rushing toward him again. He shuddered and opened his eyes again, quickly. "No. I was facing away from the door when the lights went out. I thought it was one of you – that maybe the person didn't realize I was in there and accidentally shut off the lights. I swung around, and there was someone by the door. It was dark – all I saw was this dark figure."

Don frowned. "Nothing else? Any perception at all – hair, clothes?

"No – not really, it was too dark. I – I think the guy was pretty big," he finished lamely.

Don shook his head and sent him a faint smile. "Charlie, they're pro football players – they're all big."

Charlie managed a wan smile, himself. "Yeah, I guess so." He sighed, and leaned his aching head against the headrest.

The trip to the emergency room yielded not much more than the team doctor had given them. A few X-rays later, the ER doc confirmed what they already suspected; Charlie had a mild concussion and three slightly cracked ribs. They offered to admit Charlie for observation for the night, but also gave him the option of rest at home, so Charlie opted for home. Shortly after that, they had home care instructions and a prescription for pain medicine and were on their way. Charlie was now feeling a bit nauseated; a result of the concussion, and he leaned his head against the headrest again and closed his eyes. As Don glanced over at him, he could feel anger returning. It was an unreasonable amount of anger, considering the wedge introduced by the recent argument, and the fact that he and Charlie had never been that close to begin with. The situation reminded him of when they were young and in school and he'd had to fend off bullies for his much smaller and younger brother. He felt the same as he did then; an odd mixture of emotions – a slight sense of irritation at being put in the position of having to take care of his younger brother, far outweighed by rage that someone would dare to pick on him. That anger was still simmering as he headed up the walk to open the door to the old Craftsman house, their boyhood home, with Charlie following slowly behind him. Without a doubt, they'd played out this scene before.

"Now here's some déjà vu," Don muttered to himself as he pushed the door open and stepped inside, holding it for Charlie.

Their father rose from his armchair, smiling. "How'd it go? Get any autographs?" he teased. He caught sight of Charlie's swollen cheekbone and his smile faded. "What happened to you?" He started forward, concern on his face, and hovered next to his son as Charlie gingerly headed toward the sofa.

"I guess you could say I got an autograph," Charlie said with wry expression. "I got tattooed on the ribs."

Alan looked from one to the other, baffled. "What happened?"

"I'll let Charlie tell you," said Don. "He's got cracked ribs and a mild concussion; the doctor says he's supposed to rest for the next couple of days."

"That's not gonna happen," muttered Charlie, as he sank carefully onto the sofa and laid back with a small groan.

"Don't be stupid. You heard what the doctor said," Don retorted as he headed toward the door. He added, "The ER doc gave him a prescription for some pain pills, too. It's still in my SUV. I can drop that off at the pharmacy on the way back and have them call you when it's ready."

"Where are you going?" asked Alan, sending his bewildered expression Don's way.

"To go find out who did this," Don flung over his shoulder.

...

End Chapter 4


	5. Chapter 5

Camouflage

_Author's note: Oh, the whumping is just beginning and will include both brothers – separately, and together. Cue evil laughter… and many thanks for your notes, all. _

Chapter 5

Don dropped off Charlie's prescription at the local pharmacy and got back in his SUV, his mind spinning. Although the investigation was supposedly transparent to the football team, he still had some information up his sleeve that he hadn't planned on giving them just yet – namely, Charlie's initial list of the top suspects. Before this afternoon, Don had wondered himself if this investigation was going to be a waste of time. Even Charlie admitted that anomalies happened, and Don had wondered if this was one of them. Maybe a bunch of players were simply having a great year – all by chance, nothing illegal about it. But now, that had changed. What had happened in that locker room today had proven that there was dirt of some kind under this rug, and Don was determined to find it. And maybe the best way to do that was to lay everything out there – including Charlie's list. Somebody had already been pushed to an act of desperation. If those players were on the short list and they knew it, maybe they'd do something else to reveal themselves. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, and then reached for his cell phone and hit David's number.

"David. I'm on my way back. How's the search going?"

"_I was just about to call you. We just finished up. We didn't find anything, except a couple of bottles of over-the-counter medicines, ibuprofen; stuff like that. Looks legit, but we confiscated it all anyway, and we're bringing it to the lab to be tested_."

"Did you check out any of the surveillance tapes?"

"_Yes. Parking lot cameras showed that the last four out were Worth, Wilkinson, Cancetta, and Wiseman_."

"All on Charlie's list."

"_Yeah. Colby and I ran into Cancetta and Wiseman standing in the hall, talking. We checked them out again for good measure, but I don't think it was either of them. The other two were already out in the lot. Of course, it might not have been any of them. Our perps could have cut through the back hallway and across the stadium, maybe slipped out a side exit not covered by a camera._"

"Mmm," Don grunted. "Mansell still there?"

"_Yeah."_

"Tell him I'm on my way back. I want to meet with him. Give him my number and tell him to call me."

Don had expected Mansell to want to meet in his office, but instead, the man suggested they meet for a drink. He told Don to meet him at a hotel lounge not far from the new stadium – the hotel was new, too, built about the same time as the stadium, and the lounge was upscale. Don had a jacket in his SUV and he threw it on over his shirt and slacks, but he still felt under-dressed as he made his way through the softly lit room. Everyone in the place looked as though they had money – and lots of it. Don suspected Mansell had picked the place as a power play, a subtle attempt at intimidation, and the thought amplified the slow simmer of anger in his gut.

He kept his face neutral, however, as he slid into the leather seat across from Mansell, who signaled for a waiter and ordered a double shot of Glenfiddich. "Make it two," he said, with a nod at Don.

Don glanced at the time on his phone and pocketed it; it was after six – after office hours. He normally didn't drink on the job, but he had a psychological game to play here, and having a drink with the man might put Mansell more at ease. The more unguarded he was when Don popped his information, the better. He still wasn't sure that Mansell was part of the cover-up, but until he knew, he was proceeding as though the man was guilty.

"How's your brother?" asked Mansell, leaning forward with an appropriate look of concern.

"Just like your doc said; he's got a mild concussion and three cracked ribs."

"Terrible," Mansell murmured, looking truly chagrined. "I apologize on the team's behalf, and trust me; we will do our best to get to the bottom of this." The drinks came, and they both took a sip. The whiskey was amazing; full of subtle undertones and a nice rich smoky finish, and Mansell said with a small grin, "Good stuff. Couple thousand bucks a bottle. This place is one of the few joints in town that serves it."

Don nodded and sent a small smile back, trying to set Mansell at ease. "Nice. Not something I usually spring for, myself." They savored another sip, Don watching him over the rim of his glass. "So, who do you think was behind this?"

Mansell raised an eyebrow, questioningly. "The assault?" He shook his head. "I have no idea. Neither does Ruby."

"Ruby?"

"Sorry, Coach Rubacek. We called P.J. – the team owner – and the three of us talked about it this afternoon after the locker search. We can't begin to think who would have been dumb enough – or desperate enough, to do that." He took another sip, but no expression of enjoyment crossed his face. He looked sincere, and upset. If he was involved, he was a hell of an actor. "You know, we have team rules that prohibit firearms or alcohol in the lockers – even if they are legal like permitted guns, and such, you know. Obviously the rules also prohibit anything illegal, like weapons without a permit, or drugs, -"

"Like non-prescription steroids."

Mansell shrugged, and nodded. "Like steroids. Like anything illegal. But it could have been something legal that they were after also – because we've suspended players for legal stuff," he raised his glass and swirled the amber liquid, "like a bottle of whiskey, and they know we'll do it. I'm not trying to excuse who did this – but we can't afford to wear blinders and just assume it was steroids that the guy was trying to get out of there. There's too much at stake here, now that the playoffs are coming up – the men would all give anything to be a part of them – and might do anything to keep from getting suspended. It might just have been someone trying not to get caught with a bottle of booze." He shook his head. "I'm sorry your brother got caught in the crossfire. You said he's a college student at Cal Sci? He was probably pretty excited that you brought him along to meet the team, and then this -," he waved his hand, regret on his face.

Don's eyes narrowed and he smiled, and took another sip of his Scotch, savoring it. "You think I brought Charlie along just to meet the team?"

Mansell blinked at him, and then smiled back. "Ah, I got it. You have to say he was there on business, or you'd get in trouble for dragging him along. I understand completely."

Don smile deepened. "No, you don't. First of all, Charlie is a tenured professor of mathematics at Cal Sci, not a student."

Mansell shrugged. "I misunderstood. You said he was from Cal Sci, and he looks pretty young."

Don nodded. "He is. He got his bachelors degree from Princeton at age 17, and has also studied at MIT and Oxford. He consults not only for the FBI, but for the NSA and other agencies – his clearance is higher than mine. He's helped my office solve several cases, and he's an integral part of this one. In fact, he's already done an analysis and given us a short list of potential dopers." He pulled a sheet of paper out of his jacket pocket, and slid it across the table at Mansell. He took another sip of whiskey, and studied the man's reaction.

Mansell picked up the paper, his brow furrowed. His expression darkened as he read, and he looked up with protest and anger on his face. "An analysis based on what? Media coverage? These are our top players. You expect me to believe that this list has any legitimate foundation?" He shoved the paper back across the table.

Don took another sip of his drink. "No, not media coverage," he said mildly. "Charlie insists that we need to steer clear of that; it might skew our perceptions. And if you read the list, you saw a couple of linemen on it – no matter how good they are, linemen don't get a lot of press, so media coverage definitely didn't come into who made the list. No, Charlie looked at several items; we got him some info from your team doctors such as weight gain, BMI, which is an indicator of muscle mass, performance statistics that we got from your trainers, like speed, strength and agility scores, and of course the players' stats from this season, and Charlie compared them all to last season's information for each player, and ran studies to see which players had differences that were statistically significant between last year and this year. It's very scientific, and completely unbiased. The kind of stuff that carries a lot of weight with a jury - or a commissioner. And Charlie, being a teacher, knows how to explain it so that his audience would understand. So, no, he didn't show up today just looking for autographs."

Mansell leaned forward, his dark eyes snapping. "Look, if any of my guys are dirty, I'll be the first one to say they have to pay. But I'm not going to condone a witch hunt. We agreed to cooperate to clear the team's name, not to drag a bunch of innocent players into a media frenzy."

"Then we're on the same page," Don said coolly. "Charlie's information will make us more efficient, less disruptive. We'll get to a resolution more quickly. And we've agreed to keep this investigation quiet as far as the media goes, so you don't have to worry about them getting hold of this list. But let's get one thing straight. If you're expecting us to roll over on this one, that's not gonna happen. Not after today. You've got at least two dirty players, and we're gonna find them. Is it a coincidence that the last four players out in the lot today are on Charlie's list? Maybe – but maybe not, and if they're guilty, we'll prove it. No doubt in my mind." He stood, set his drink on the table, and nodded at the list. "You can keep that. Thanks for the drink."

He left Mansell hunched, brooding over his drink, staring at the paper on the table.

...

They gathered at Mike Reese's house. Wiseman, Worth, Cancetta, Muhala, Wilkinson, and Reese, and Trainer Frank.

Frank Sczechnewski had been with the Warriors since their start. To all of the players, he was simply known as Trainer Frank, just like Rubacek was Coach Ruby. Frank was trained as a physical therapist, and was the one who worked out kinked muscles, did initial on-site assessments of injuries, oversaw rehab, and monitored the players' fitness regimens, including weight training and speed work. He was knowledgeable about the best enhancements for performance – all legal – protein, creatine, arginine, beta ecdysterone. He also came down the hardest, and delivered the most ardent lectures, on the dangers of juicing – using steroids – or at least on the dangers of getting caught. So when he asked some of them to meet at Reese's house one day toward the end of last season and proposed a new supplement for just their elite group of six, they trusted him, even though he told them they needed to keep it quiet.

"It's not like, illegal, you know?" he had said. "If you take this stuff you'll come up clean on a drug test, no problem. But there are always cutting-edge supplements that the testers haven't found yet. You'll need to keep this to yourselves or the testers will take this away from us, too." That was the day they'd all found what they eventually nicknamed "Magic," and as time went on and they began to see results, they were all hooked. Frank didn't need to worry about any of them talking; they were well aware the stuff gave them an edge and they wanted to keep it. Frank was their source, and to some extent, their leader. So tonight with the worrisome investigation underway, when Trainer Frank called another meeting at Reese's house, they all showed up.

They hung out there from time to time anyway; most of them just had apartments because they were young, unattached, and on the road a lot. Reese wasn't married yet either but he had an actual house, with a pool and a backyard perfect for barbecuing and drinking beer, so it had become a kind of hangout.

Now, they sat around with burgers and cold ones and Frank stood in front of them, a beer in his hand. "You all know," he said, "that we're under investigation. I've got some instructions for you. First of all, tonight is the last night we should all be together for a while. The feds will be watching the best performers on the team, and they'll keep an eye out on who hangs with who. It's best if we hang loose for a while; see some other friends, whatever."

Reese made a face. "Why the hell should they care if we want to hang out together?"

Frank explained patiently, in the same tone he used to demonstrate a new weightlifting technique. "Because the thing they're after is the one thing we all have in common - Magic. Now I'm not saying they'd find it because none of us are gonna tell them about it, but it's best not to give them any more information than we have to. It's only while the investigation is going on." He looked at Deondre. "And no more special deliveries by courier. They'll be watching for stuff like that. I brought some extra stuff for all of you tonight – it should be more than enough to get you all through the rest of the season. You can bring it home, keep it secure and out of sight, in case they decide to pay you a visit." He turned his gaze on Leshawn. "And for God's sake, don't be stupid enough to bring it to the locker room."

Leshawn and Deondre both looked uncomfortable, but Jack Worth laughed. "Damn, that was a rush," he guffawed, and Reese, a fellow lineman and huge man in his own right, grinned.

"I heard about it, but not all of it. Tell us what happened," he said, and took a swig of his beer.

"So the fed brings his nerdy little brother along to the locker room, right?" said Worth, grinning. "And Wilkinson goes and leaves a used syringe in his bag, and they're searching the defensive locker room first, so he's screwed. But then Joey gets the idea that Leshawn should leave his syringe in his locker, and we make a distraction back in the offensive locker room, and when they all come running in there, Wilkinson can slip in the front door and get his syringe. We was just gonna make a noise in the back, you know, but when we go to open the back door who should be in there but the fed's kid brother. He's making notes, writin' down locker numbers or some shit. So I decide instead of just makin' a noise, I'll go in and pancake him. I did, too – I heard the air go right out of him, and the little sucker just slid down the lockers." He finished with a guffaw, and Reese joined him, and reached out and tapped his beer against Worth's.

Freddie Muhala, the tight end from Maui, just looked at them with big dark eyes, and looked at Joey Cancetta, and Joey shrugged. "Not my idea," he said. "I was just gonna bang a locker door."

"Yeah, that would have been a lot smarter," said Frank, looking at Worth disapprovingly. "I heard about it later from Ruby, and all you did was piss his Fed brother off. He'll be on the warpath, now. We can't have any more of that kind of shit, you understand? If they'd caught you, we'd all have been in deep shit."

"No you wouldn't, 'cause I don't squeal," said Worth. "If they caught me, I was just gonna say I thought it was one of the players, and I was playin' a joke on him. A case of mistaken identity in the dark. I ain't stupid."

"That's debatable," muttered Joey to himself, and Worth glared at him.

"What did you say?"

"I said, that was a great idea," said Joey. "The story you had ready."

Worth settled back in his chair, mollified. "And anyway, it was a hoot. You know, when we look back on this season, we're gonna have ton of stories to tell, and we're all gonna sit around and laugh about this when it's over."

"So, I have a question," said Muhala, looking at Frank. "You said you brought a bunch of stuff tonight, and you've been bringing it all along, and you haven't asked any of us to pay for it. Stuff like this – it's gotta be expensive, right? I've been wondering, who's paying for it?"

"Someone who supports the team, and your careers," said Frank. "That's all you gotta know."

...

P.J. Murciano, the owner of the Warriors, was in his study when the phone rang. It was Mansell, and Murciano said, "It's about time you called. How'd your meeting with Eppes go?"

"_Not good. They've got a list of players who they want to concentrate on, and you're not gonna like it. Worth, Wilkinson, Wiseman and Cancetta in one group, and Peterson, Muhala, Salinger, and Reese in another. First group is labeled 'high probability' and the second 'statistically significant_.'"

Murciano felt his gut clench. "What in the hell does that mean?"

"_It's some list put together by Eppes' brother_."

"The kid who got smacked in the locker room?"

"_The same – except he's not a kid. I mean, he's young, but he's some kind of math phenom. I thought he was a student, but he's a professor at Cal Sci, and he put this list together using some kind of advanced statistical study. And that whole thing in the locker room just pissed Eppes off. He's like a dog with a bone – he's not gonna let this one go."_

'_Like hell he won't_,' thought Murciano, but he said, "Well, that's the breaks. We've got no choice; we have to cooperate. And the whole team was just tested, and came up clean, right? We've got nothing to worry about."

"_I don't know_," said Mansell, doubtfully. "_I mean, if you start to add it up, you've got the locker room incident, which looks bad, and this study sounds pretty convincing. And it's only the first day of the investigation. Who knows what else they'll come up with? If the picture gets ugly enough, it could be enough for league suspensions, even if they don't find anything criminal_. _Either way, there goes the season. You know I've got to report that incident in the locker room to the commissioner. If I don't, the feds will anyway._"

"Okay, that's fine. Don't worry," said Murciano heartily. "They'll poke around and they won't find anything, because there's nothing to find. Just settle down, cooperate with them; it'll be fine." They traded good-byes, and Murciano hung up the phone and sat there, thinking, for a long moment. Then he reached in his desk, and pulled out a prepaid cell phone.

"We're so damned close," he muttered to himself. "I'll be damned if I let some freakin' fed get in the way." He dialed, and when he heard a voice on the other end, he said, "Frank? We've got a problem."

...

End Chapter 5


	6. Chapter 6

Camouflage

_Author's note: Thanks for your comments, all- they are such fun to read. There is some big foreshadowing in this chapter. Big._

Chapter 6

Late that evening, Dr. Ansel Stevenson glanced around the dark entryway and unlocked the front door to his small laboratory. As he did so, a figure materialized from the shadows. "Took you long enough," said Trainer Frank.

Stevenson, a short, balding man with a fringe of red hair, huffed. "It's not like I make a habit of running to the lab at night."

Frank grinned but the expression was dark, his eyes without humor. "Just remember who funds this lab. You need to show some respect."

Stevenson shot him a look, but quit complaining. He opened the door, ushered Frank in and looked around outside before he closed the door. "What is so important that we have to meet now?"

"We got an issue," said Frank. "This – this 'camouflage' technology that you have – it's been doing a good job of masking the steroids. We've been giving them full doses – a couple of them are getting even more than a full dose – and nothing comes up on the screening test, just like you said."

"That's not news," said Stevenson irritably, as he headed into the lab area. The lights were still on, and he clucked impatiently. "That Donna – she never turns out the lights when she leaves. And I just made you up a huge batch and gave it to you at 5:00 p.m. What are you doing back already?"

"And you were paid pretty well for it," said Frank, unperturbed. "I need something else now.

...

Dr. Donna Bainbridge froze as she heard the rattle of the door handle. The lab was a little creepy in the evenings. It was in a quiet neighborhood, but the street was dark and deserted at night; she had worried before about someone breaking in. She quickly logged off her computer screen, and stepped into a side office and shut the door. There was a window in the office door that looked out into the lab and another in the office wall that looked out toward the main entrance, but it was dark inside the small room, and she slipped behind a large centrifuge that sat on a table, certain she couldn't be seen. If she looked around the centrifuge, she had a view of the building entrance through the office window, and she had her cell phone. If it wasn't Dr. Stevenson – her boss and the only other person who worked here – or the cleaning crew coming through that door, she could call 911, and hope that help got there before the intruders decided to check the room she was in.

As she watched through the office window, the front door to the lab opened; she stiffened as a man walked in, then immediately relaxed as she saw that Stevenson was with him. She felt foolish, hiding there in the dark, and she hesitated, just long enough that it would look even more ridiculous for her to emerge. And something else held her back. She recognized the man that Stevenson was with. She'd seen him here more than once, and the most recent time was earlier that same day. Stevenson had excused her and asked her to go for coffee for them, just like the other times the man was there. She'd gone for coffee again today, but this time she'd lingered long enough near her car that she'd seen the man come out to his vehicle with several small boxes. Something about the whole thing felt not quite right, and Stevenson's silence on the matter made her feel instinctively that she shouldn't ask – just as she felt instinctively, now, that she should stay quiet and hidden.

She could see them talking and could hear the murmur of voices through the door, but she couldn't quite make out the words. She saw Stevenson stop and look at the man with shock, then he protested, and the man said something to him, sharply. Stevenson stared at him a moment in apparent disbelief; he looked about to protest again but then his shoulders slumped. He turned and walked further into the lab, out of Donna's sight. The man followed him.

Donna frowned. She felt a bit ashamed, as if she was a voyeur; she really shouldn't be watching this. At the same time she felt somehow entitled to know what was going on – especially if it was something illegal. She had come to work for Dr. Stevenson straight out of college after receiving her doctorate, and had spent the last five years of her life working with the man in close confidence on what was sure to be one of the most amazing discoveries of the century in both chemistry and medicine – Camouflage. Her future was bound up in his – and if he was doing something wrong…

She stepped forward around the centrifuge and closer to the door, edging sideways little by little, changing the angle of her view until she could see them through the window again. They were standing in front of the cabinets where she and Stevenson stored experimental trials, and Stevenson was just lifting down a rack of vials. He set it on the counter and turned and walked away back toward the middle of the lab, and Donna had to dart back behind the centrifuge again as he came even with the room she was in, or he would have seen her through the window in the door. She stayed there not moving for a moment, her hear thudding, hoping Stevenson hadn't seen her before she got out of sight. When she ventured another peep around, she saw the man walking back toward Stevenson. He seemed to be carrying something, but it had to be small. His hand was closed around it – one or two of the vials, perhaps? She couldn't quite make out what it was. The man said something to Stevenson as he passed, but Stevenson barely acknowledged him. He stood there, rooted to the spot for several minutes after the man had gone, before he finally headed for the door.

He turned out the lights when he left, and the lab was plunged into darkness. Donna felt her way out of the room and headed for the front window, guiding herself by the dim light coming around the edges of the curtains. She pulled back an edge of drapery and looked outside. She watched Stevenson get into his car, watched him leave, grateful that she had parked her own car in the alley in back instead of on the street. Neither man had noticed it back there, apparently. She waited for five long minutes after he left before she turned on the lights, and slowly turned and surveyed the room.

Her eyes were drawn to the cabinets and she went toward them and opened them, scanning the racks of vials. The one that Stevenson had lifted down had already been put back, presumably by the other man. The racks held samples of every version of Camouflage they had ever tested, from the start of the project to the current version, plus some samples of other experiments. Not of all of the racks were full to begin with, so it was impossible to tell which ones had vials missing – if indeed the man had taken one. They had a log where they kept track of that information, but she would have to get it out and go through each rack and count the vials, and compare the count and the vial labels in each rack to what was in the book. It would take at least two hours.

She hesitated for just a moment, and then went and got the log.

...

The alarm went off, and Charlie stirred and groaned. For a moment, he just left his eyes closed, wondering how he was going to manage to get himself upright, and then, gritting his teeth, he pushed himself up on his elbow, and swung his feet over the side of the bed. That movement elicited a grunt of pain; his ribcage was still throbbing. His head hurt too, but the dizziness from yesterday was gone; it was a good thing, because he had to get to campus. The doctor had advised bed rest for at least two days, but there was no way that Charlie could swing that – not with the visit from the grant committee coming up, plus his classes, and now, the investigation. And anyway, he told himself, as he rose stiffly from the bed, it wasn't as if his job was inordinately physical. Of course, he hadn't thought that consulting for the FBI was that physical, either, until yesterday.

In the bathroom, he peered at himself in the mirror. His cheekbone was bruised and swollen, but the swelling hadn't extended to his eye, so that was a blessing; he could have looked much worse. He managed to get his T-shirt and boxers off, and winced as he caught sight of his ribs. There was a big ugly round bruise in the middle of his left ribcage; it looked as painful as it felt. He turned on the shower to hot, and gingerly stepped into the tub and let the water run for a minute or two on his aching body before he reached for the soap.

The shower helped significantly, and so did coffee. Charlie dressed, made his way down to the kitchen, and poured himself a cup. He sank rather stiffly onto the edge of a chair and took a sip, just as his father bustled in from the laundry room. "Charlie!" he said in surprise, as he took in Charlie's clothing. "You're not going to school! The doctor prescribed two days of rest."

"I'm fine, dad," Charlie sighed. "I've got too much to do, and these ribs are going to hurt whether I'm at school or at home. "

"Yes, but at home, you can take your pain medicine and snooze on the sofa," said Alan.

"True," Charlie conceded, thinking about the pain pill he had taken the night before. Even though the doctor had prescribed something milder than he normally would have because of the concussion, it still had made Charlie sleepy, and eased the pain in his ribcage enough so that he could sleep. He didn't need grogginess today; he had settled for acetaminophen that morning instead. He started to shake his head; then thought better of it. "I just can't. I have way too much to do."

Alan sighed, conceding defeat. "Then let me drive you. You can't possibly ride your bike in your condition." Charlie grimaced; he hated being driven – it was a reminder that he still hadn't gotten his driver's license. It hadn't seemed important, somehow, when he was immersed in his studies and even when he started out teaching at Cal Sci. The campus was only a few blocks away; easily reachable on his bicycle. A license, in fact, hadn't become important until he started thinking about Amita, and the fact that she would soon graduate, and therefore become eligible for him to ask out – and he could hardly take her out on a date on the handlebars of his bicycle. His father was still talking, and Charlie tried to refocus on the conversation. "I can drop you off a little closer so you don't have to walk so far. And if you start feeling bad you should call me to come get you. I'm working from home today; I can be there in a few minutes."

By the time Charlie made it to his office he was heartily glad he hadn't decided to decline his father's offer of a ride; he would never have gotten there on his bike. He was short of breath simply from walking, and his head and ribs were throbbing. He sank into his chair with a sigh of relief, just as Amita and Larry pushed through his office door. "Morning -," Amita began brightly, then cut her greeting short as she caught sight of the bruise on his face. "Charlie – what happened?"

Charlie hesitated, but just briefly. He couldn't tell the truth, exactly, because the investigation was confidential, so he said simply, "Had a little accident yesterday – I fell. It's not a big deal."

Amita looked distraught, and Larry said, "Fell? When? At home?" He too, looked concerned, but his gaze was probing, and Charlie squirmed a little uncomfortably.

"You remember I told you I was going to meet with Don yesterday afternoon?" He _had_ told them that much, just not where or why. If they had assumed he meant the FBI offices, well, he couldn't help that. To his relief, they mentally went where he'd led them.

"At the FBI building?" asked Amita. Her questions came tumbling out, one after another. "Where did you fall – on the stairs? Why didn't you take the elevator? Are you okay?"

"Hit my head and cracked a couple of ribs," said Charlie, ignoring her first two questions, knowing that his response would probably distract her from pushing for the answers to them. It did; she and Larry both looked dismayed. Just to be safe, he added, "It was kind of embarrassing – I feel like a klutz. But I'm fine." No real lies there in any of that, but he felt bad, not giving them the whole story. He rose stiffly from his chair, and picked up his class notes. Time to change the subject. "I have to get to class – it's all the way over in the Reyes building and I'm walking a bit more slowly today, so I'd better get started."

"Oh, you poor thing," crooned Amita. "You should be home, resting. Look, I'm running past the coffee shop – can I pick you up something? Hot tea?"

Charlie flushed with pleasure. Maybe a few cracked ribs weren't all bad, if it got a man some attention from a pretty girl. "Oh, that's okay, don't bother -,"

"It's no bother. I have a class over that way. I'll drop it off on my way," she blurted, already turning and darting out the door so quickly she nearly ran into the janitor who was sweeping the hallway.

Charlie watched her go, and grinned and shrugged a little at Larry, then winced at the movement. Larry smiled back. "You're fond of her."

He phrased it as a statement, not a question, and Charlie blushed. "Maybe." He looked at Larry. "She's done with her doctorate in two months."

Larry cocked his head, and delivered another conjecture. "And when she's no longer a student, you're thinking of asking her out."

Charlie's flush deepened, and so did his grin. "Maybe. I've got to get to class." He made his way gingerly past his mentor, who was smiling indulgently.

Charlie moved a little faster than he projected and was several minutes early – the lecture hall was still empty when he got there, but Amita had beaten him there before running off to her own class. On the desk sat a steaming cup of tea from the campus coffee shop, with a note next to it in Amita's neat handwriting. '_I hope you feel better. Amita._' Charlie took a sip, and closed his eyes in pleasure at the sensation of warmth that coursed through him. Definitely, he was going to ask her out.

...

Don sighed, rubbed his face, took a swig of coffee and regarded his agents from across the conference room table. It had been a late night for them; they had gone on surveillance duty after leaving the locker rooms, each of them targeting one of the four men who topped Charlie's list – the same four who had been the last to leave the stadium the day before. Ordinarily that surveillance would have been assigned to junior agents or L.A. police, but the secrecy of the investigation made it necessary for them to do it themselves. So, armed with DMV information on the men's vehicles, they'd each gone in search of them.

Don looked at Colby. "So you had Jack Worth. Anything?"

Colby shook his head. "Nada. His truck wasn't there when I got to his apartment building, so I sat and waited in the parking garage. He didn't get in until almost eleven. Came in alone; parked, went straight up to his apartment. He was carrying his gym bag; nothing else. I waited there a couple more hours to make sure he didn't go anywhere else before I called it a night."

"I had Deondre Wiseman," said Megan. "Same thing, he was out when I got to his apartment, but he got back earlier – about eight. He brought in his gym bag, too, and never came back out."

David shook his head. "Same for me. I had Leshawn Wilkinson. He got back around 9:30. He had his gym bag, but he also had a plastic bag; looked like a carryout bag, or maybe a plastic grocery bag. He went in; was in for the night."

Don sat back in his chair, took another drink of coffee and made a face. The coffee in the office was never great, but it tasted particularly bad that day. "I had Joey Cancetta. He was also out; got back to his place around nine. Brought in his gym bag with him; nothing else that I could see. He didn't come back out either, at least not before midnight, which was when I left." He paused, then rose, and began pacing. "So they were all out somewhere after practice. Together?"

"They all got back home at different times," David pointed out.

"Their apartments are all in different parts of the city, so even if they left from the same point, they would get home at different times," said Colby. "But that wouldn't account for all of the time difference. Not with Wiseman and Worth getting in three hours apart."

"Unless they were all at the same place, and they all left at different times," mused Megan. "Or maybe some of them made other stops along the way home."

Don was still pacing, ticking off points on his fingers. "All out after practice, all returned home and didn't go anywhere else, all carrying something when they came in."

David looked at him. "You think they all brought something home from wherever they were?"

"We could get a warrant, search their places," suggested Colby.

Don shook his head. "Not without cause. Carrying a gym bag into your apartment after practice isn't enough to convince a judge to issue a warrant. We can't play that card until we're absolutely sure there's something there."

Colby looked at him, then at David and Megan. "So now what?"

Don picked up a sheaf of stapled papers. "This is their schedule for the next several days, including practice times. We will show up at practices and watch them interact. I also want interviews with the four we watched last night, and with the other four that Charlie identified as statistically significant." He flipped a couple of pages, and looked down at the list. "The other four are Peterson, Muhala, Salinger, and Reese. Peterson's the kicker. He's been around a few years, was mediocre, but is having an exceptional year, and broke the league record for distance this season. Muhala is a tight end, been in the league three years, did nothing special until this year. Muhala, Deondre Wiseman and Joey Cancetta are all performing above the norm when it comes to scoring, and all improved their speed, agility and strength scores. Salinger is special teams; improved his time in the forty by almost two seconds. Reese is a lineman, like Jack Worth. Both Reese and Worth put on an unusual amount of muscle mass in the last year, and improved their speed off the line by 50 percent, which is an unheard-of improvement." He laid down the paper. "We need to interview them all."

"What about the manager, Clayton Mansell?" asked Megan. "You met with him yesterday."

Don nodded. "Yeah, I did. I sprang our list on him to see how he would react – he was pissed – accused us of singling out his best players, of being on a witch hunt. On the other hand, he seemed genuinely upset over what happened to Charlie. I don't have a good read on him yet."

"How's Charlie doing?" asked David.

"Okay, I guess." Don sighed, and made a wry face. "He must be – I called this morning and my dad said he went in to school. He was supposed to be off for a couple of days."

Colby grinned. "Little guy takes a lickin' and keeps on tickin'. That's good, right? We could use some help going through the outside contacts – phone records and stuff. He could probably run a search for us."

"Yeah," said Don. His voice was flat, expressionless, and noncommittal, and when Megan turned her gaze on him, he looked down at the sheaf of papers in his hand. "Okay – concerning our observation of practice later today. Coach Rubacek called this morning to say that there are going to be reporters there for the first hour of practice. Just steer clear of them. If anyone asks, you are reporters from a magazine called Football News, but I doubt anyone will ask. All right then - we've got records to go through, a practice to attend later, and we need to line up the eight suspect player interviews – and that's just to start. I want to talk to the trainers, the doctors – we have a lot to do. Let's get going."

Megan lingered, waiting until the others filed out, watching Don gather his paperwork. "Everything okay?"

Don looked up at her and raised an eyebrow. "Fine. Why do you ask?"

She smiled softly. "You and your brother have a little – history – I take it. I get a lot of emotional undercurrent when you two are together. You were a little hot yesterday, after he got hurt."

Don stared at her, then went back to sorting papers. "Practicing your profiling techniques on your boss?"

She flushed. She knew she was probably treading in sensitive territory and it wasn't really her business, but her motives were good – she'd been hoping to help, somehow. Sometimes it was good to talk things out with an unbiased listener. Her new boss's response was more brusque than she'd expected, however. Flustered, she rose and prepared to beat a hasty retreat. "I'm sorry. None of my business. I am a good listener, though, if you ever want to talk -," she waved a hand vaguely, "- about anything." She smiled at him as she passed. "I have some history of my own – we all have history."

He didn't look up, didn't respond until she made it to the door, then said, "Wait."

She turned, and he turned to face her. "I'm sorry,' he said, "I was a little abrupt. Yes, you're dead on – Charlie and I have some history."

She murmured sympathetically, "It had to be tough, growing up with a genius younger sibling."

Don shrugged, but he acquiesced. "You could say that. Over the last year, we've been trying to find some common ground, I guess. For a while, it looked like the common ground would be work."

She raised her eyebrows. "It appears to me that it still _is_ work. You brought him in on this case, in spite of the fireworks last week."

Don nodded, soberly. "I did. I am considering whether this is a good long term – situation – however."

Megan looked at him quizzically as he paused, but he didn't elaborate. "I appreciate your concern."

It was a dismissal, and she took the hint, and turned to go. "No problem. The offer stands, anytime."

"Thanks."

She felt his eyes on her back as she headed out into the bullpen.

...

End, Chapter 6


	7. Chapter 7

Camouflage

_Author's note: Thanks again for your comments. I loved your guesses. Donna Bainbridge will be an integral part of the story, and so will Mark Wallenstein..._

Chapter 7

Frank arrived at the stadium well before practice and took the stairs to the owner's box at the top level of the stadium, and knocked softly. He entered, shut the door behind him, and walked to the owner's side. P. J. Murciano was the only one in the box, and stood staring down at the empty stadium.

"Well?" Murciano asked, without breaking his gaze.

"It's done. Picked up last night and was delivered this morning."

Murciano looked at him sharply. "Already? Did you confirm that – your action – can be reversed?"

Frank nodded. "We would need Stevenson to get us the product to do that, but yes. He confirmed it could be reversed – within a certain time period. Two to three weeks, or so."

"Or so? He can't be more accurate than that?"

"It depends on the individual. Height, weight, et cetera. Maybe three weeks for a larger person."

"How did he respond to your request?"

Frank shrugged. "He wasn't happy, but he'll do what we want. He knows we'll pull his lab funding if he doesn't. Do you want me to make the call?"

Murciano shook his head. "Not yet. We aren't in that bad of a situation yet. And I probably won't have you make the call. Too much risk of your voice being recognized, if they should happen to talk to you during the investigation. I'll have someone else do it."

Frank looked at him. "Who?"

"I have some help coming in from New York. An old business acquaintance."

Frank nodded. Murciano's ties to the mob on the east coast had been rumored. He had no doubt that the man had contacts. "Okay then. I talked to the players last night - they all have their extra supplies, and understand the orders to lay low."

Murciano gave him a look of appreciation. "Good work. It's probably good timing for that delivery you made this morning. I have a feeling that if things go badly, they are going to do so quickly. We should know within the week if we need to proceed with that phone call, or reverse this."

"Or not reverse it," said Frank softly. "It's undetectable."

Murciano eyed him appraisingly. "I already considered that. That is a possibility. We'll have to assess the risks associated with the reversal." He nodded. "Thanks."

A single brusque nod; a single brusque word, but it was more appreciation than Murciano ordinarily offered. "No problem," said Frank, and he turned and walked out of the box, and went downstairs to get ready for practice.

...

Mark Wallenstein was hungry. All good reporters were hungry for the great story, and sports reporters were no exception. His recent assignment to cover the L.A. sports scene had been a decided step down; he had been reassigned to sports from the crime beat when the L.A. Herald had brought in some hotshot crime reporter from Chicago. The demotion still smarted, but it made Mark all the hungrier. Mr. Hotshot from Chicago had turned out to be not quite as good as expected, and Mark knew he was better. If he did a stellar job with the sports section, there was a chance that maybe they'd bump him back up to hard news. So when he'd found that the Warriors were opening practice to the press for one hour of their practice time that day – no cameras allowed – he was right on it, at the stadium precisely on time.

He was more detailed than most and picked up on items that other sports reporters missed. He attributed that to the time he'd spent covering the crime stories– something most other sports reporters hadn't done. The experience had trained him to look beyond the story in question, to examine all details – and it had also made him familiar with some of the top law enforcement figures in L.A. Still, he wasn't expecting anyone from law enforcement at practice, so when a familiar figure caught his eye, it took a moment for him to place him.

Mark had been jotting down notes, watching the players, but a couple of men in sports jackets had caught his eye. They were standing across the stadium from him, watching the players, taking notes of their own. They weren't any L.A. or Vegas reporters that he recognized; they looked like plain clothes cops to him, and that piqued his interest. When another man walked over to them – also in a sports jacket, Mark was certain he'd seen him before. Dark tousled hair, good looking; definite air of authority… For a moment Mark thought that maybe they were ESPN big shots, but then he remembered the face from news coverage of a big murder case a few months back. Don Eppes – SAC of the local FBI office. The other two men with him were undoubtedly agents, also. What in the hell were FBI agents doing at a Warriors practice?

He got that funny little gripping sensation in his stomach that he always got when he thought he was on to an exclusive, and still pretending to jot notes, he glanced around at the other reporters to see if they'd picked up on the agents. From their rapt attention on the field, he guessed not. He had an advantage over them – since none of them probably had any experience with covering stories that involved the local feds, they undoubtedly had no idea that the men on the other side of the stadium were agents. It was big news in itself that the feds were there – but it would be even bigger news if he could find out why.

He debated for a moment. He could approach the agents directly and ask why they were there, but he wasn't sure he would get the truth. He had to concede, they could be there for something that wasn't really newsworthy, like a routine check of stadium security prior to the playoff games, but if that was the case, they would be talking to facility managers and touring the structure, not standing there observing players. Unless they were done with their tour, and were taking a few minutes to enjoy the perk of watching the pros practice – but then, why would they still be taking notes? This was starting to smell like something big, and he didn't want to risk showing his hand. He thought for a moment, and turned and slipped downstairs.

He made his way through the hallways, past the tunnel that led to the field, and to the locker rooms. Every reporter there that day had been in those locker rooms before, usually a noisy, smelly experience, but today they were quiet. Wallenstein slipped inside and saw exactly what he was looking for, someone low level in the organization – the trainer's assistant was in there by himself, laying out fresh towels. Wallenstein strolled in coolly, pretending to take notes. The assistant, a skinny young man plagued with acne, barely gave him a glance. The staff was used to reporters.

Wallenstein pretended to study the names on the lockers, and casually made his way toward the young man. "They coming in soon?" he asked, nodding at the towels.

The assistant shook his head. "Nah, they just started. They'll be a while."

Wallenstein grinned ruefully. "Aw, too bad. They only gave us an hour today, so we'll have to leave before they get off the field. I was hoping to catch a couple of 'em, and ask 'em what they thought of the fed's investigation."

The young man's eyes widened, and he glanced over his shoulder. "I didn't think – I mean – they told us not to talk about it. They said until they broke the story, if we said anything, we'd be fired." He stared at Mark, uncomfortably.

_Bingo_. There _was_ something big here. Mark swallowed his excitement, smiled broadly, and pushed a little more. "Well, not everyone knows – yet – but they will soon. They called some of us to practice today to break the news. Must have figured it was better to get it out in the open."

The assistant relaxed, shrugged, and went back to folding towels. "Oh, I didn't know they were telling press today. I guess it's okay, then. Well, it's just routine, anyway – you know, like they did in major league baseball. Only unlike baseball, they aren't gonna find anything. It's seems like a bunch of bullshit about nothing, to me. Everyone knows the players have all been tested; it's routine, and they all come back clean every time." He shrugged again. "But you guys all know that anyway – you published the results of their last round of tests in the sports pages. It's not like it's any big secret."

"Nope," agreed Mark, pleasantly, his gut doing the clutch again, his brain screaming, '_Exclusive, exclusive_!' The feds were apparently there to investigate performance enhancing drugs. "Not a big secret at all." He nodded at the young man. "Have a good one."

"You too."

It took a supreme effort, but Wallenstein strolled at a casual pace, all the way out to his car. As soon as he was safely inside the vehicle, he got on his cell phone and called his editor. "I've got a hot one – and I mean really hot – an exclusive. You at the office? Okay, I'll be there in fifteen minutes." He shut off the phone, and grinned. This one was going to make his reputation, for sure.

A half hour later, his balloon burst. Or at least deflated a little. "What do you mean, we can't release it yet?"

His editor clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't get me wrong – this is great stuff. We just need a little more with it. Why are the feds investigating for steroids – and we need to confirm that they are. Who initiated the investigation – the commissioner or the feds? We need to find out the answer to those questions, and then we've got a story – and you're right, it's a hot one. Look, I've got a couple of contacts in the NFL commissioner's office – and I'm sure you've got some contacts in law enforcement. Or maybe that kid you talked to today knows something more. Let's dig for one day; see what we get. Then we'll go with what we've got – and don't worry, it's all yours when it goes to press."

"Yeah, okay," said Wallenstein. He glanced at his watch. He could get back to the stadium in fifteen minutes. It would be too late to go back in; the free hour for the press would be over, but if he hung around outside, maybe he'd catch the assistant trainer again, coming out.

It took two hours for the young man to show – he didn't leave until practice ended. Wallenstein caught him in the parking lot, in the mood for a beer or two, so they'd headed for a little nearby bar. The beer or two turned into three and then four. At beer one, he learned the young man's name, Arnie Sykes. By beer two, he had the guy's life story, which he didn't need. He fed him back some of his; made sure the kid understood he was dealing with a top rung reporter. By beer three, Mark had broached the idea of having a confidential informant on the team, and had seen the flare of interest in the young man's eyes, but Mark held off – he didn't make the offer yet. By beer four, the young man had dropped his voice, which was by then a little slurred, and started delivering.

Arnie really only had one hard fact, which had been conveyed to the team and all of the staff by the manager, Clayton Mansell, in a special meeting a day or two before. Apparently, the commissioner's office had called for the investigation; the feds were looking for evidence of performance enhancing drugs, prompted by the Warrior's turnaround year and some of the record performances by individuals. The investigation was supposed to be secret until the results came out, and was supposed to clear the team and remove any speculation that their great year was due to drugs. Arnie steadfastly maintained the team's innocence, but then he delivered a rumor that was almost more interesting than the confirmation of the investigation.

"Ya know, we had an incident at the locker room, yesterday," Arnie slurred. He took another big slurp of beer and looked around them to be sure no one was listening. "I wasn't there, but the story was goin' all around the locker room today. I guess the head fed – Eppes, brought his younger brother along, when they came to check lockers yesterday. The guy – the younger brother – was in the back locker room by himself, and someone busted in, shut off the light and pancaked him – like, for no reason. Plastered him right up against the lockers – dented one of 'em, I saw it myself, today."

Wallenstein, who had paced himself and was on beer two, frowned and said, "Why would anyone do that?"

Arnie took another sidelong look at the room, and another swig of beer. "Someone said it was for no reason, just someone pissed off about the investigation, but there was another rumor, and this one makes more sense to me. Word is; they think it was two guys – when everyone heard the noise and ran into the back locker room, they think the other guy ran in and got somethin' out of his locker in the front locker room. A distraction. That's the story that' goin' around, anyway." He swiped at his nose with the back of his hand. "But it don't mean they were after 'roids. Coach has got rules – you can't keep booze or guns in the lockers or you get suspended, and no one wants to get suspended now, with the playoffs coming up. Someone was probably just getting' their booze out of their locker; didn't want to get caught."

Wallenstein had his own opinion on that – risking getting caught for assault on a fed's brother probably warranted something bigger than booze in a locker. "So, was the guy hurt? The brother?"

"I hear they took him to UCLA for a check, but someone said the team doc thought he had busted ribs."

Wallenstein took a celebratory swig of his beer – his editor had been right – this had just gone from a hot story to a sensational one. He had to get out of there, and try to confirm the rumors. "Listen," he said, leaning forward, "how would you like to be my official contact on the team? Completely confidential, of course. And you don't have to tell me anything you don't want. I'm not looking for the secret playbook – I'm a big Warriors fan, too. I just want any interesting stories."

Arnie grinned, and straightened up in his chair. "Like, sure. I can do that. I see a lot of what goes on. I know who gets along with who, who's lookin' hot in practice, stuff like that. Anyway, our home town papers _ought_ to get the good stuff. I hate those Vegas guys, comin' down here and thinking they know all the dirt on our team. Half the time, they don't even get it right."

Mark raised his mug, and as Arnie raised his, they clinked, clinching the pact. "Then it's a deal. Here's to the L.A. Herald's latest official Warrior's contact."

...

Don had conferred with Megan on the best way to do the interviews with the players, and they decided jointly that they would set up after practice in one of the team classrooms, and all four either participate or observe each person. They had started with the second group, the one Charlie had designated as statistically significant. They interviewed each of them, running through a long list of questions that ranged from what they thought about team management to what they did on their personal time. Muhala, the tight end, true to his position, had been deemed by the FBI team as a little 'uptight,' but had revealed nothing of interest, and the same with Salinger from special teams. Reese, the lineman, aroused suspicion just by looking at him; the man was huge, with bulging biceps – a poster boy for steroids. He was surly and uncooperative, and made it clear that he thought they were trying to shovel dirt on the team's reputation. But it was Peterson, the kicker, who made the most interesting comment.

He knocked on the door, and Don broke off his conversation with his team, and called, "Come in!"

Peterson strolled in, a derisive smirk on his face, and sank into the seat that they had placed, facing them across a table. He was tall, lanky and good-looking, with blond hair and ice-blue eyes. Colby and David sat across from him, and Don and Megan stood behind them, Megan leaning against the back wall, taking note of any non-verbal clues.

"Bobby Peterson, field goal kicker. Joined the team last year from the Rams. Seven years in the league – is that right?" asked Colby, referring to the sheet in front of him.

Peterson's lip lifted in a sneer. "You're interviewing the kicker? Really? To what do I owe this honor? Because I got lucky and kicked a 65-yarder?"

"Not just that," said David. "You've been having a pretty good year in general – especially compared to your previous seasons."

Peterson shrugged. "Lucky seven. Some of us are late bloomers. I played well enough to stay in the league for seven years, didn't I? And now, because I'm having a good year, I get attention from the commissioner. What a joke."

Don studied him. "Why is it a joke?"

Peterson snorted. "Because I'm a _kicker_." His voice dripped with bitterness. "Kickers aren't_ real_ players – they aren't _real_ athletes. Ask the press. Ask my teammates. Ask the chosen few – that's who you want to talk to, anyway." He rose from his seat. "This is a waste of time – mine, and yours. I don't juice." He pointed at the paper in front of Colby. "Look at my record – I came up the hard way. I'm not the one you want."

Don felt a spark of excitement. "Who are the chosen few?" he asked, trying to keep his face neutral.

Peterson shook his head. Barely submerged anger simmered in his eyes. "I'm no snitch. But I'm not one of them – not part of their clique. Kickers aren't real players, remember? No one asked me."

"No one asked you what?" said David.

Peterson smiled, grimly. "No one asked me to join their little elite society. Right now, I'm pretty damn glad of that."

"Who are we talking about, here?" asked Don.

Peterson shrugged, and made for the door. "I'm not even sure. I have my suspicions, but that's all they are. Maybe those guys are clean, anyway – they must be, if their tests keep coming up clean." He paused at the door, and turned. "There's just this group of guys who hang out with Trainer Frank. He gives 'em the latest exercises; the most attention in the weight room. It's like freakin' high school – they're the hot shots – and the rest of us are mud. Even if we have more experience than half of 'em."

Don smiled and shrugged. "So who are they? If they're passing their drug tests, it's not like you're dishing dirt on them." Peterson paused, and Don's smile turned steely. "Of course, you could keep quiet, and get charged with impeding an investigation."

Peterson snorted. "Screw that. I'm not sticking my neck out for those assholes. And you're right, it's not like I'm dishing dirt on them. Hanging out together isn't a crime. You didn't hear this from me, but from what I see and hear in the weight room, it's Worth, Reese, Wiseman, Wilkinson, Cancetta and Muhala. They're all tight. They and Trainer Frank all hang out over at Reese's house, almost every week we're in town." He looked at Don. "Am I done?"

Don nodded. "Yeah, you're done. "

Peterson shot all of them a look as he turned. "I'm not gonna wish you luck. I hope you don't find anything – we've got a Superbowl to win."

He left, shutting the door behind him, and they all looked at each other and Colby said, "Well, we just narrowed Charlie's list down from eight to six."

"Seven," said Megan, and they all turned to look at her. "Who is Trainer Frank?"

"Frank Sczechnewski, if I said that right. He's on the staff interview list," said David, looking at the paper in front of him. "We were interviewing staff when we got done with the team interviews – and after Charlie's top eight guys, we've got forty-five players to interview, then management, before we get to the staff." He looked at Don. "Do you want to bring him in before we do that?"

Don was silent for a moment. "No. Let's leave the schedule the way it is."

"It'll take us a couple of days to get to him," said Colby.

"That's okay," said Don. "I don't want him to know we're onto to their little club. Let's watch them for a few days, do some after-hours surveillance. Maybe we'll pick up on some other contacts."

...

It was a long day, and Don didn't get to the Craftsman with the newly shortened list until nearly nine that evening. He intended to ask Charlie to run the phone records of all seven members of the 'jock club' as Colby called it, through an algorithm, and help pick out any other phone numbers of interest from their recent calls. But when he walked through the door, he found Charlie passed out, dead asleep on the sofa.

His father greeted him with a finger raised to his lips. "Shh – I finally convinced him to take a pain pill and lie down for a bit. He came home at six with sore ribs and a nasty headache, but worked on paperwork until nearly 8:30. He ate next to nothing – said he was feeling queasy. He's trying to do too much with that concussion."

Don looked over at the sofa. Charlie was laying on his back, completely out, his face peaceful, a heating pad on his ribcage. An unruly dark curl straggled across his face just under the bruise on his cheekbone, as if to underline it. Don felt a little spasm of guilt shoot through him. He should never have asked him in on this case, especially when he was considering cutting him loose after it was done, anyway. '_I'll just have him do this one last analysis_,' he told himself. "_Then that's it."_ Aloud, he said, "I brought over something for him to look at, when he gets a chance. No rush." He waved the folder vaguely at his father.

Alan studied Don's face. "You look tired. Are you hungry? I made extra, and there's more than usual anyway, since Charlie didn't eat much." He put a hand on Don's arm. "Come on in the kitchen, sit down and get something to eat."

Don hesitated. He'd been starving earlier, but hunger had come and gone. Now, thinking of food, it was back again. His stomach growled. He nodded – "Okay-," and followed his father out to the kitchen, with a detour into the dining room to set the folder on top of Charlie's pile of paperwork. He sat down wearily at the kitchen table, and watched his father dish up a plate of stroganoff and set it in the microwave.

Alan set the timer, filled a glass with ice and water and handed it to Don, along with a fork. The soft buzz of the microwave filled the room. "You know," said his father, "I think Charlie is pretty swamped. I'm not sure how fast he can get to whatever it is you're leaving for him. In fact, if you can swing it without him – I wonder if he shouldn't sit this one out, get some rest. Maybe he can help out with the next one."

The microwaved dinged and went quiet, and in the ensuing silence, Don said, "I don't think there's gonna be a next one."

Alan, who had opened the microwave door to retrieve the plate, turned and stared at him. He carefully took out the plate and set it in front of his son, and sat down at the table with him. "And why do you say that?"

Don picked up his fork and took a mouthful of stroganoff, and concentrated on his plate as he answered. "I don't know – I guess it kind of hit me last week – we've been doing this for a year. When Charlie first helped me out, I figured we might collaborate once or twice, or once in a while. But it's been a year, and he's helped me out on a lot of cases – a lot more than one or two. This – collaboration – has kind of taken on a life of its own. Don't get me wrong, Dad, it's been good, and I'm grateful for the help, but I don't want to drift into a long-term deal here by default. I think if this is to continue, it should be a conscious decision, not something that just – happens. A conscious decision on both of our parts."

"Does this have anything to do with your argument last week?"

Don grimaced. "It was more than an argument, Dad, it was a shouting match. And yeah, that might be part of it. Maybe working together isn't the best thing for us. And even though I've been thinking about this for a few days, what happened yesterday is a part of it, too. That assault was bad enough – but what if he'd gotten badly hurt? I'd feel responsible because I'd brought him in on this, and I'm not sure I want the responsibility for that."

Alan sat back in his chair, and sighed. "You know, I agree with you there. I've often wished you were in another line of work – I worry about you every day of my life, and it doesn't feel great to have to worry about Charlie now, too. But I do like the fact that the two of you are finally relating – spending time together." He looked at Don. "As much as I want to protect you, I can't change what both of you choose to do; you have to do what makes you happy, what fulfills you. But I can tell you, Charlie really enjoys working with you, and I think up until now, you've enjoyed working with him. You need to ask yourself a few questions before you make a decision. First, can you find a way to work together with mutual respect? If you're not there, how can you get there? It might be as simple as having a conversation with him about the subject. I really believe that he understands you're in charge – and from a comment he made to me, I think he feels badly enough about his role in that argument that he'll think twice before he does that again."

"Second, you need to ask yourself what will happen to your relationship if you cut this off. He'll be deeply disappointed, I can assure you. Resentful? Maybe. You'll need to be prepared for that." He smiled, rose, and clapped a hand on his son's shoulder. "Give it some time. And give yourself some credit – and your brother, too. You're smart guys – I'm sure you'll figure this out if you put your mind to it. And when it comes to a conscious decision, I think Charlie has already made his. I can guarantee you from what he has said, he'd do about anything to make it work."

Don sat back and looked at him. "Why? What did he say?"

Alan hesitated. "He'd probably kill me for repeating this, but he told me once that he loves working with you. I don't know if you realize this, but he's always looked up to you. The way he phrased it was, 'you let him work with you.' If that doesn't tell you that he understands his role on your team, I don't know what does." He grabbed Don's water glass and re-filled it, and plunked it down on the table. "Now finish your dinner, or I'm going to start to think you boys don't like my stroganoff." He winked and smiled, pushed the kitchen door open, and left Don sitting at the table, staring at his plate.

,,,,,,,,,,,,

End, Chapter 7


	8. Chapter 8

Camouflage

_Author's note: Thanks for your comments, everyone – here's Chapter 8. :)_

Chapter 8

Donna Bainbridge was back in the lab again that evening, late. The night before, after nearly two hours of inventorying racks of vials, she'd ascertained that two of the vials from the very first trial of Camouflage were missing. Exhausted, she'd gone home to get some sleep, her mind running in circles. Why on earth had Stevenson given that man those vials? They'd fine-tuned the product more than once since then – the first trials were failures. And Stevenson hadn't looked happy about it. Why would he give the man samples of his early studies, if he didn't want to?

She'd worked with him in the lab that day, and while Ansel Stevenson was never a bundle of laughs, today he was unusually morose. Twice, she'd almost told him that she was there last evening and what she'd witnessed in the hopes that he'd confide in her, but without knowing what was going on, she was afraid to say anything. What if Stevenson and the man were up to something illegal? She decided that she would try to find out more about what they were doing before she asked him, and so when their work day ended, she left for a while, but after she was sure Stevenson was gone for the day, she came back.

She went straight for the file cabinets and Stevenson's notes on the beginning of the project. Donna hadn't been working with him yet at that point – Stevenson had started the project on his own. It was only after the first trial that he'd realized what he had possibly discovered and decided he needed help, and hired Donna, fresh out of school at UCLA. Together, they'd carried out many subsequent trials as they refined the product. She pored through his notes from those early days, frowning.

The first trial of Camouflage had been a chemical breakthrough, but a medical disaster. Stevenson had been doing experiments, trying to develop a substance that would splice medicines to targeted cells – a receptor that would attach to both the targeted cell and the medicine, and bind them together. In that way, doctors could pinpoint treatments directly where they wanted them; for example, deliver strong doses of chemotherapy directly to cancer cells, and nowhere else. Stevenson's first trial was an attempt to deliver insulin directly to pancreatic cells in diabetic lab rats.

At first, his notes read, he was optimistic, but that optimism soon faded. One by one, the rats began to sicken and die. Confused and frustrated, he drew blood from a few rats for analysis – and to his surprise, could find no evidence of either his experimental substance or any evidence of the insulin it was bound to. Autopsies on the pancreases of the rats yielded that they had been destroyed. Stevenson knew that the insulin and his experimental substance must not have combined correctly, and created some new substance that was toxic to the pancreas, although he could not find any trace of the poison itself. He knew, though, that the substance was still present in the rats, and eventually discovered the chemical he needed to 'unlock' the toxin and separate it back into its two base components – insulin and his new substance, which he nicknamed Camouflage, due to its ability to obscure test results. He injected another rat with Camouflage bound to insulin, and when the animal also began to sicken, Stevenson was able to reverse the process by using the 'unlocking' chemical, which broke apart the Camouflage and the insulin. Broken apart, the two components became both detectable and harmless, and the rat began to recover.

What followed were many trials with other drugs, targeting other organs, and multiple versions of Camouflage. Donna was with working with Stevenson by then, and along the way, he had come up with a new investor. Who that person was, Donna had no idea; Stevenson kept his identity confidential. The investor funded their studies and a larger lab, and during the next year, they made great strides. Finally, early this year, they'd come up with a 'safe' version of Camouflage, one that safely delivered proper doses of drugs to selected points in the body by coupling the Camouflage with receptors geared to interact with those points. The latest version did what it was supposed to do, but it still had the unintended side effect of making the drugs to which it was attached undetectable in blood or urine samples. Donna knew there were social consequences to such a substance – in the wrong hands it could be used to develop versions of illegal drugs, such as cocaine or meth, which would not be able to be detected in a drug test. On the other hand, it could deliver cancer drugs to the site of a tumor, without adversely affecting other parts of the body. In spite of its down side, it was a huge discovery – and they were on the verge of publishing their findings.

She pored through the early notes, but Donna could find no reason why Stevenson would want to give the man the two vials from the first trial. That version was useless – unless perhaps the man was going to deliver it to a competitor, to throw them off track…

She was still trying to think of reasons for Stevenson's strange behavior, when she heard a car door slam outside. She grabbed her purse and the file in front of her, quickly shut the file drawer and ran for her hiding place behind the centrifuge in the little office, this time leaving the office door ajar just a bit so she could hear conversation in the outer room. "I can't believe I'm doing this again," she breathed, watching the front door.

Stevenson stormed in, slammed the front door behind him, and spoke angrily into his cell phone. "I changed my mind," he snarled. "I want them back."

Donna was sure he meant the vials – what else could he mean – and she held her breath, listening, as she slowly eased her purse to the floor.

"You'd _better_ be on your way. I want them back, tonight. You can threaten me all you want – I won't be a party to that." There was a pause, then he said, "You wouldn't do that – you need me." Stevenson glanced at the clock on the wall. "Fifteen minutes – okay, I'm waiting, and I'm watching the clock."

Fifteen minutes was an eternity. Donna knew that she needed to remain hidden – she was certain she had just witnessed a conversation that she shouldn't, and it wouldn't do to get fired now, which would probably be what would happen if she showed herself. Not when they were on the verge of publishing this find, and Stevenson had agreed to include her in the publication as a partner. It would make her career. She held her breath, hiding behind the centrifuge in the dark little room, listening to Stevenson pace and mutter under his breath. She had never seen him like this – as down and dejected as he'd been that day, he was just as energized and angry that evening. Changed his mind? She suspected he was referring to the vials, but what had he changed his mind about?

Finally, she heard the door open again, and peeking out, she saw two men enter the lab – the one she had seen the previous afternoon and evening – the man who had taken the vials, and another man, a stranger with dark hair. She ducked back behind the centrifuge. The new man was strange to Stevenson too; Donna heard Ansel demand, "Who is that?"

He had barely got the words out when Donna heard him gasp, and then a loud bang made her jump so violently she nearly displaced the centrifuge from its spot on the desk. Almost simultaneously, there was a thud, then after a second, she heard one of the men say, "What do we do with him?" and her heart lurched as the realization hit her. Stevenson had just been shot.

"Oh my God," she whispered, and trembling, she sank to the floor behind the desk with the centrifuge, clutching the folder to her chest.

"Leave him here," said one of them. It was the stranger, the one she'd never seen until that night. "We'll go pick up the girl who works with him – she'll have to help us out, with him gone. I've got her address. You said no one comes in here but them – no one will find him for days. I'll wipe off the gun and put it in his hand – when they do find him, maybe they'll think he offed himself."

She heard them moving, putting the gun in Stevenson's hand, no doubt, and then they were gone – the front door slammed, and she heard a car start up on the street, then heard the sound of its engine fade as it drove off. She got shakily to her feet, her mind whirling, almost absently picking up her purse from the floor. They were looking for her. She had to get out of there – had to leave – had to hide. Thank God she'd parked her car in the back again, so they hadn't seen it – but when they got to her apartment and found she wasn't there, they'd come back. She needed to go.

She slid out of the room to see Stevenson lying at her feet, blood oozing from a hole in his head. She felt nausea surging and fought it down, easing around the blood pooling on the floor. She started for the back door, then looked back at the lab and hesitated, and grabbed an empty cardboard box from under a lab desk and ran for the file cabinet. They would be gone for at least thirty minutes – it took fifteen to get to her apartment. She took everything – feverishly stacking files into boxes, and then as many of the experimental vials as she could. She ran back and forth loading her trunk, knowing it was foolish to stay, but she just couldn't part with years of work and the discovery of the decade. Finally, after nearly a half hour, she knew it was time to go, and she shut the back door behind her and got in her car. She started it and backed down the alleyway to the next street in the block behind the lab, without her headlights. She was feeling odd; her stomach roiling with nausea and terror. She backed onto the street and put the car into drive, and as she slid past the alleyway in the darkness, she saw a car slide by at the other end of the alley, pulling up to the curb on the street in front of the lab. They were back, and she was out, just in time. She glided past the alleyway entrance, out of sight, and was gone.

The close call made her start to shake again, and she cruised through the side streets with her headlights still off until she got close to the highway. Then she flicked on her lights, roared up the on ramp, and into the night. Into anywhere, but there.

...

P. J. Murciano answered the door at four in the morning, opening it as soon as the soft knock sounded, and ushered in Frank Sczechnewski and his man from New York, Mike 'Rocky' Dellarocco. Murciano's wife and his two young sons were sleeping, and he steered the men quietly into his study and shut the door.

"I assume you took care of things," he said, as he sat behind his desk and motioned the men to sit across from him. When Frank had called him and told him of his phone call from Stevenson five hours earlier, Murciano had sent his man Rocky, fresh in from New York, to meet Frank, knowing that Rocky had the equipment and the skills to take care of the issue. The only question in Murciano's mind was how the two men – strangers to each other – would work together.

Frank and Rocky exchanged glances, and sat. "We have an issue," said Frank. "We took care of Stevenson, but we think he was getting ready to rat on us. When we got back and looked through the lab, it looked like he had already packed up a bunch of files and samples, and took them somewhere. Not only that, the girl is gone. Right after we took care of Stevenson, we went right over to her apartment, and she wasn't there. We came back and checked out the lab, saw that the files and samples were missing, and then went over to Stevenson's house and tossed the place, looking for them. Didn't find shit. Then we went back to the girl's place. By this time, it's three in the morning, and she still isn't there. So we get inside, look around. No files or anything, and all her clothes and luggage and stuff were there – so she left in a hurry. We think Stevenson told her what was up, and to get out of town."

"That does create an issue," said Murciano, slowly. "That product, and everything I've invested in it, goes down the drain without one of them to publish the findings and sign over the production rights to me. To say nothing of being able to supply more product to our boys on the team. At least if we had the files, we could pass them on to another researcher. I've got to believe the girl knows where they are. If Stevenson clued her in on what was going on, he would have told her where he put them." He looked at them. "You need to find her."

"What about the other thing?" Frank looked from one to the other. "Did you make the call yet?"

"Not yet, but that will be an issue, too," said Murciano. "If we don't find that girl, we can't – reverse – the situation. Without Stevenson, she's the only one who will know how to do that. We need her – and we need her before she goes to the cops."

"Then we find her," said Rocky, matter-of-factly.

Murciano looked at Frank. "Rocky's good at that kind of thing. Better get going. Get me on the burner as soon as you find her."

They nodded agreement and left, and Murciano sat for a moment, his fingers tented in front of him, thinking. Then he turned out the light, locked the front door, and crept back upstairs and into bed beside his sleeping wife.

...

"Don was here last night? You should have woken me up," fumed Charlie the next morning, and he hurriedly gathered his files – including the one that his brother had dropped off the night before. He was running late and felt awful; the nausea was increasing, although his headache had subsided. His ribs, however, seemed to ache even more than the day before. He felt as though he was coming down with the flu, and that thought made him even crankier. The flu was all he needed right now, on top of everything else. '_Or it could be the pain medication_,' he thought to himself. '_Better get off that stuff_.'

Alan watched him frantically stuff files into his bag, and load up his laptop. "Maybe you should tell him you don't have time for this case with your presentation coming up in a few days. And you should eat something."

"I would have time for that, if I hadn't spent all of the last eleven hours sleeping," groused Charlie. "But anyway, I'm not hungry. I think those pain pills make me nauseous."

"That reminds me – someone from the hospital called last night," said Alan. "It was some kind of patient follow-up call. You were sleeping. I told them that you were still suffering from some pain and nausea – he said he'd call back and talk to you in person, but that if your symptoms continued, you should go back in for a check."

"I'm fine, and I don't have time for that anyway. Can you drop me off again? I'm in a hurry." The last brusque statement was delivered over Charlie's shoulder, on his way out the door.

Alan just shook his head, and sighed as he reached for the car keys from their spot on the counter. "Son," he said, "if you knew what your brother was thinking, you'd be _really _cranky."

...

David Sinclair and Megan Reeves found themselves riding the elevator up to the FBI offices together that morning. "So, you get anything last night?" said Megan, leaning against the elevator wall, yawning.

David rubbed his clean-shaven head, wearily. "No. Reese didn't go anywhere. I hung around down the block from his house until midnight, then I left. How about you?"

Megan yawned again. "Man, I need coffee. No, nothing for me, either. Muhala stopped for takeout at a bar close to his apartment, then went home. Didn't come out again as long as I was there, which was about 12:30. As far as finding any drug contacts goes, we're striking out. They all know they're being watched."

The elevator doors opened, and they stepped out, to see Colby striding toward them. He motioned them back. "Hold the door," he said. "Don wants us upstairs."

They stepped back into the elevator and let him on, and David frowned as Colby pushed the button. "In Merrick's office? This early? That can't be good."

"It didn't sound good. Whatever it is, Don wasn't happy."

They rode the rest of the way in silence, broken only by another yawn from Megan. They were just a few days into the investigation, and the extra hours were already taking their toll. They trailed down the hall. David knocked on Merrick's door, got a sharp command to enter, and they walked in, each of them somehow feeling they were being summoned to the school principal's office. Merrick waved them forward. Don was sitting in front of Merrick's desk, his lips tight, and Corey Reardon and Mike Pierce, the two men from the NFL Commissioner's office, sat with him. As Colby, Megan and David moved toward them, Pierce smacked a newspaper on the desk. "Any of you know anything about this?"

Don held up a copy of that day's L.A. Herald, and they gaped at the front page. At the top was a banner headline that read, 'Warriors under Federal Investigation.' Lower on the page was a smaller article that read, 'Cal Sci Professor Victim of Attack in Warrior's Locker Room.' Below that title was a short article featuring a file photo of Charlie, from a year or two before. He smiled out at them from the page.

They all looked at the group around the desk and said, "No," simultaneously, and then looked at each other.

"I saw it this morning when I got up," said Merrick. His expression was concerned and perplexed, but he didn't appear angry – yet. "When I got into the office, I found a message waiting for me from P. J. Murciano. When I called him back, I got an earful. I also had a call from the NFL commissioner himself, and," he waved at Pierce and Reardon, "these two gentlemen were waiting outside my office when I got here. The article has quite a bit of detail in it – it correctly states that the FBI is conducting an investigation into the Warriors, for banned substance use. The article on Charlie also correctly states he was attacked in the Warrior's locker room, and has some correct detail on when it happened and the injuries he sustained. The information had to come from someone inside – either in our organization, or the Warriors'."

Pierce stood, and glared at Don. "You'd better make sure it's not your team." He transferred his glare to Merrick. "We need to go and do some damage control. I trust that you'll get your house in order." With that, Reardon stood too, and followed Pierce out the door.

As the door closed, Colby shook his head. "You know it wasn't any of us. "

Megan's eyes narrowed, thoughtfully. "There were a lot of sports reporters at the field the other day, when we were there observing practice. Maybe some of them recognized some of us. Maybe not me, or Colby, because we're pretty new around here…," she trailed off, and raised an eyebrow at Don.

"It's possible," Don said slowly. "I tried to stay out of sight for the most part, that day – I think I'm the only one of us who has had his face in the news for previous cases, although I didn't figure sports reporters would pick up on that. The guy who wrote this – his name's Wallenstein. He used to cover the regular news beat before he picked up sports, so he might have recognized me."

"The stuff about Charlie – that's the clincher, Don," said Merrick, not unkindly. "The article specified that he had a concussion and broken ribs. Hospitals won't release that kind of information without patient permission. And how much of the football team knew exactly what his injuries were? Not many, I'd guess."

Don sighed. "That would narrow it down. The only one I told about Charlie's injuries, specifically, was Clayton Mansell, the team manager – I met with him right after it happened, and told him the hospital had confirmed what their team doctor had suggested. I assume Mansell told the owner, Murciano, and possibly Coach Rubacek. It doesn't make sense that _they_ would say anything to anyone else, especially the press. Other than them, and us, and the ER doc, there is only one other person who would know." He stared at the paper for a moment, his face darkening, then he looked up. "I think I need to go have a talk with Charlie."

"Before you go," said Merrick, pulling a file out of his drawer, "I have another case for you. A prominent scientist – a chemist – was murdered last night in his lab, a small private place off Wilshire near Hancock Park. Someone called it in – a woman from a payphone up near San Fernando. LAPD went to check it out, found Ansel Stevenson lying on the floor of his lab with a bullet hole in his head. Someone tried to make it look like a suicide, but LAPD is certain it was a homicide. There were some open and empty drawers and cabinets – it appeared that some files and some lab items were missing. So is Stevenson's only employee – a fellow scientist named Donna Bainbridge. Right now, she's LAPD's best suspect. We've been called in by the NSA to oversee this because they weren't quite sure what Stevenson was working on and whether it had any national security implications." He paused. "I know you're all pretty busy on the Warrior's investigation, but this needs to take precedence – at least until we can rule out a security threat."

Don took the file, with a nod. "We're on it."

They filed out of the office, and as soon as they were in the hallway, Don handed the file to David. "You and Colby go get started on this. I'll meet you back here in an hour or two to review it. Megan, you're following leads in the Warrior's case." His tone was curt, his lips tight again, and he began stride off ahead of them, down the hall.

"Where are you going?" asked Colby.

Don shot the response back over his shoulder. "To talk to Charlie."

...

End, Chapter 8


	9. Chapter 9

Camouflage

_Author's note: Concerning the medical bits in this story - I am no doctor, and the description of Camouflage is completely fictional. That being said, I like to be within the realm of reason, and I have done some digging into the topic. There actually is similar research going on with respect to developing substances like Camouflage that 'stick' to target receptors to deliver drugs to particular points in the body._

_I am going to be gone for much of the week, so I am issuing two chapters in rapid succession - here's chapter 9, and chapter 10 will follow tomorrow. _

Chapter 9

At school, Charlie had an hour before class and his stomach seemed as though it was settling down a bit, so he grabbed a hot tea from the campus coffee shop and sipped at it, looking through the file Don had sent. He noted the kicker's comments concerning the six players and Trainer Frank, and Don's request to run through the last several months of phone records and look for common numbers the seven of them might have called. That was easy enough – as soon as he got time, he'd write an algorithm and run the data through it. Don was giving him a day or two to do this; he and the team had more interviews to cover, so that was good. Charlie breathed a little sigh of relief, and glanced at the time – he had to get to class. He grabbed his notes and headed for the door.

His stomach started churning again on the trip over, and by the time he got to the lecture hall he felt dizzy and the nausea was nearly overwhelming. He made it inside and dashed down the hall to the men's room, tossing his class notes on a chair and just making it into a stall before he was violently ill. He found himself on his knees in front of a toilet, gasping and retching until his stomach was empty, grunting as the abdominal spasms shot spears of pain through his injured rib cage. Finally, with a groan, he leaned against the side of the stall, still on his knees, and closed his eyes. The room was spinning and his head was pounding again. Maybe it was the flu. Another, even darker thought crossed his mind – that maybe his concussion wasn't as minor as the doctor thought, or he'd aggravated it somehow by not resting, but he pushed the thought away. He didn't have time to be sick. He heard the door open, then Larry's voice, a bit breathless, behind him. "Charles? Are you all right?"

Charlie rose on shaky legs, hit the flush lever, and turned. Larry was regarding him with a worried expression. "I saw you dash in here, looking rather desperate," he said. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah," said Charlie huskily, and made for the sink. "I think my pain pills don't agree with me. " At the sink, he splashed some cold water on his face and wiped it with a paper towel.

"I can take your class for you, if you wish," said Larry, hovering uncertainly behind him.

Charlie sighed and looked at him gratefully. "No, but thanks for the offer," he said. "I'll be okay now."

"I'll be in Pickering's office, if you need me," said Larry, "just down the hall. Send a student to get me if you need to."

Charlie nodded. "Thanks." Then he picked up his notes and tottered off to class.

With nothing in his stomach, the nausea subsided. He made it through the lecture and trudged wearily back toward his office, squinting against the stiff breeze that swirled through the campus grounds. His ribs still hurt, but the pain was either subsiding, or he was getting used to it; he was finding that although sore, he could function. He paid little attention to his surroundings, giving polite but cursory nods to the students who greeted him. He was lost in thought; his mind jumping back and forth between the case and his presentation for the grant commission the next week, and so he didn't notice the curious looks from some of the students who passed him. The first inkling he had about the newspaper article was the sound of a voice calling his name, and he turned to see a man with short-cropped reddish blond hair and a beard to match, smiling, striding toward him, with his hand outstretched. "Professor Eppes."

Charlie shook his hand, staring at him with a bemused half-smile. "Do I know you?"

"Mark Wallenstein," said the man, his grin widening as he pulled out a small tape recorder. "L.A. Herald. I'd like to ask you about the consulting you do for the FBI. How is it, working with your brother?"

Charlie's jaw dropped. "What? I – I'm sorry, I can't answer any questions on that topic." He could hear a familiar voice behind him, calling his name, and he turned to see Larry and Amita hurrying toward him. He looked at them, and then back at Wallenstein, flustered.

Wallenstein was staring at him expectantly. "How about the Warriors investigation, then? Can you fill me in on your attack in the locker room?"

"What?" said Charlie; faintly.

"Charles, why didn't you tell us?" said Larry, breathlessly, as they pulled up next to him.

Amita was a little more blunt. "You lied to us! You said you fell!"

Charlie gaped at them. "What?" He couldn't seem to stop saying that word, and he shook himself, trying to get a grip on his scattered thoughts. How did they all know about the locker room? His stomach was flipping again.

Amita waved the front page of the Herald at him, and Charlie's eyes widened. He caught the paper mid-wave and stared at the articles, his mouth open. "Oh, no." He looked up at them, with a pleading expression. "It was supposed to be a confidential investigation. I wasn't allowed to talk about it." He looked back down at the paper, scowling as he read Mark Wallenstein's name under the title. "How did this happen?"

"That's what I'd like to know." Another voice came from behind them; it was familiar, and it was angry, and Charlie winced and turned.

"Don."

Don's face was inscrutable, his eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses. "Charlie, I need to talk to you for a minute." It was a not-so-veiled hint that the others should leave. They picked up on his intimation and began to step away, but not before Don sent a pointed look toward Wallenstein. "Stay away from this investigation, Wallenstein, or I'll be having a talk with your boss."

Wallenstein shrugged, but he eased away. "It's not a crime to discuss something that's public knowledge." He nodded at Charlie with a sly grin. "Good talking to you, Charlie."

"Charlie – I hope you're feeling better," said Amita softly, and she turned to follow Larry, casting a concerned look over her shoulder as she left.

"I wasn't talking to him," protested Charlie, as Don grabbed his arm and steered him away toward an empty stretch of grass, away from sidewalks and potential passing eavesdroppers.

"_Sure_ you weren't," growled Don.

Charlie's dark eyes flashed angrily, and he pulled his arm out of Don's grasp and faced him. His dark hair whipped around his face. "I _said_ I didn't talk to him. He came up to me just now – it's the first time I've ever seen him."

Don's stony expression turned angry and his voice rose. "Charlie, don't lie to me. No one could have given Wallenstein the details of your injuries but you. My team didn't, and the Warriors' organization wouldn't. You did, or you authorized the hospital to do it – either way, it was irresponsible."

Charlie was trembling with anger and frustration. His side hurt again, he didn't feel well, and he surely didn't feel like standing there and taking unfounded accusations. He pointed a finger at his brother. "Before you go accusing me, why don't you ask Dad about the phone call he got last night. Someone supposedly from the hospital, doing a follow-up check. Probably someone named Wallenstein. Why don't you try _that,_ before you go calling me a liar?" He turned on his heel and staggered a little as he did so. The disapproval in Don's face began to fade and he reached out to steady him, but before he could say anything else, Charlie shrugged off his hand and strode away angrily, head down.

...

Several minutes later, Don walked wearily out of the Craftsman, and ran a hand through his hair with a sigh of exasperation. "Son of a bitch." His father had confirmed it – he said the man who called the night before had asked some leading questions, and Alan admitted that he might have mentioned a concussion and was pretty certain he had offered the words 'broken ribs.' It was small consolation; even though it wasn't Charlie, one of his family members had leaked the information, so Don still had some explaining to do – and he had managed to piss off his brother in the process. Wallenstein – that sneaky bastard – had conned his father over the phone last night and just now, had tried to act as though he had talked to Charlie previously, probably just to create a fight between the two of them. Don wouldn't be surprised if Wallenstein had been photographing their argument on the campus green with a telescope lens. He stood there a moment, his lips tightening, and then got in his SUV, started it, and turned it toward the downtown office of the L.A. Herald. On the way, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed Merrick.

...

Donna Bainbridge put on her sunglasses and slipped out the door of the little motel she had just booked near Madera, just south of San Francisco. It was a small, older building on the outskirts of town in a quiet section; the building was single story, L-shaped and fronted by a parking lot. Although her room was in the front, Donna parked her car in a second lot around back, out of sight from the street. The units were rent-by-the-week rooms with a small kitchen, and maid service only once a week. That suited Donna just fine – she didn't want maids in the room poking around – they might take a peek in her boxes, and wonder about the vials inside. That might lead them to think about the news story that had made it up even this far north from L.A. – the story about the murder of an L.A. scientist – and the woman who was the prime suspect. It had hit the local radio news, just before she got to Madera.

The night before, as soon as she'd put a few miles between her and the lab, Donna had stopped first at a payphone on the north side of L.A. and dialed 911, and called in the shooting without giving her name. Then she'd stopped at two ATMs and taken out as much cash as she could at each of them, but the $300 limit was too low – she needed more. At the second one, she'd tossed her cell phone in a nearby garbage can - she had heard they could be tracked. She spent a sleepless night in a sleazy pay-by-the-hour motel, paying cash for the room, getting up to peek out the window every time a car pulled into the lot. Early the next morning, she had walked into a nearby branch of her bank and withdrew the single withdrawal limit of $5000. She wanted more, but she couldn't get that without central bank approval, and even then the money would be issued as a cashier's check that she would need to cash at another bank – which would have its own limits on how much cash one could take out at a given time. So she settled for $5000. It was risky to even go into the bank for that much, she knew, but it was relatively early in the day – hopefully too soon for the police to have gotten out her name on the news yet – and she couldn't disappear completely without cash. As soon as she had the money, she left L.A. and headed north.

In Bakersfield she had stopped at a wig store and had bought two wigs; both medium length bobs; one red and one blonde, both significantly different-looking from her long medium brown tresses. Then she had pulled her car into a back lot and put on the blonde wig. Finally, she'd stopped and bought a pre-paid cell phone with cash, and left town.

Now, as she left her motel room in Madera, she hoped that the hair change and the sunglasses were enough of a disguise. Her car was an issue; she imagined there would be a description out on it eventually. She could keep it out of sight in the parking lot behind the motel, for the most part. Taking it out again now was a risk, but the risk would grow as time wore on. She didn't want to leave her room, but she had to pick up some food – enough to last her for at least a week – and some inexpensive clothing and toiletries, because she'd taken nothing with her. She had paid cash in advance for the room for one week, while she sorted out what to do.

Her rational mind told her to contact the L.A.P.D. and turn herself in, but she was petrified. She didn't have a lawyer, and according to the news stories, she apparently was the prime suspect. She wasn't sure the police would believe her story, and she had no names to give them, only descriptions of the two men who had shot Stevenson, and they were both rather average-looking. The police could think she was making them up. And even if L.A.P.D. did believe her story and release her, she would be back on the street and become a target for those men, whoever they were. So while her mind said '_stand up and face this_,' her gut said, '_lay low, and think this out_.' So far, her gut was winning.

...

Mark Wallenstein sorted through the digital photo images on his office computer, pretending to be oblivious to Samuel Bergen - Mr. Hotshot Chicago – the reporter who'd taken Mark's place on the crime beat. Bergen wasn't happy about Wallenstein's exclusive story on the Warriors, and had actually tried to go to their editor with a request that _he_ pick up the story going forward, maintaining that the story of the assault on the professor obviously belonged to the reporter who had the crime beat, not the sports reporter. To Mark's relief, his editor kept his promise, and had told Bergen that the story was Mark's. Now, well aware of Bergen's jealous glances, Mark smiled a little to himself as he examined a photo he had taken of the two Eppes brothers on the Cal Sci campus.

He had gone to Cal Sci hoping for a close up of Charlie, maybe a nice shot of that nasty bruise on his cheekbone, but then Don Eppes had shown up, presenting a different photo opportunity. He could see the argument brewing between them, and Mark gave it his own little extra push by pretending to be on a first-name basis with Charlie, then stepped away to watch the fireworks. It had worked nicely; he'd gotten several good shots with his zoom lens as they argued. In the photo on the screen, the Eppes brothers were facing each other, frowning, engaged in what appeared to be an emotional conversation, and a caption floated through Mark's head – '_Agent Eppes and Professor Eppes discuss the Warriors case_.' Or maybe, '_Two brothers debate leads in the Warriors case_.' Or maybe –

"Wallenstein."

Mark jerked upright at the sound of Don Eppes' voice, and looked toward the doorway, startled. He rose to his feet, hastily closing the window on his computer that displayed the photo, pretending as though he'd been expecting his visitor. "Agent. How nice of you to come down. Do you have something for me?"

He shot a sidelong glance at Bergen, and with a little thrill of victory, saw the sour look on his face. Bergen hadn't been able to develop much in the way of contacts in any L.A. law enforcement agency yet, much less in the FBI office. And Bergen sure as hell didn't warrant a personal visit from the SAC himself. Of course, Wallenstein didn't either; he was certain that Eppes wasn't there to politely offer information on the case, but Bergen didn't need to know that. Wallenstein hastily came out from behind his desk, and said, "Let's step into the conference room."

Eppes gave him a strange look, but fell into step beside him, and said, "I want your editor in on this too." His face was nearly expressionless, but still managed to look hard and cold; and Wallenstein swallowed. It had occurred to him that it would be smart to get on Eppes' good side, and he hadn't made a good start.

"Of course."

He got Eppes situated in the conference room, safely away from Bergen, and called his editor, Pete Moscovich, from the conference room phone. Pete wasted no time in getting there, and Don Eppes wasted no time in getting to past the introductions and to his point.

"I'm going to give you a statement, you're going to publish it, and then you're going to drop this story until the NFL commissioner releases the results," Eppes said flatly. He looked at Wallenstein with distaste. "You are especially going to stay away from my family."

"I'm afraid we can't do that," said Pete, smoothly. "This story is in the public domain now – all of our competitors will be vying for a piece of it. We'll need to keep up. And as for your family members – if they wish to talk to us, that's their decision. We aren't going to turn them down if they do."

"Trust me," growled Eppes, "they don't wish to talk to you." He glared at Wallenstein. "You misrepresented yourself to my father last night to get information about my brother. Maybe I should go to your competition and give them _that_ scoop."

"That won't be necessary," said Pete, hastily. "I'm sure we can compromise in exchange for your statement. We can agree to publish only official statements by your office or any information issued by the Warriors personnel or official statements by the commissioner's office, or anything that is public knowledge – same as our competition will be doing. We will not initiate contact with your family going forward. Now, what is your statement?"

Eppes stared at him for a moment, and then said. "Okay, it's this, and I am giving this to you with permission from the L.A. office of the FBI, the NFL commissioner's office, and the Warriors' organization. I spoke to the heads of each of those organizations on the way here and got their agreement."

Wallenstein put his head down and wrote furiously as Eppes recited, "The FBI is conducting an investigation into the Warriors' organization to determine whether there is or has been any use of banned substances. The Warriors players to date have all tested negative for any such substances, but the unprecedented success of a new franchise has created many rumors. The NFL commissioner intends to either verify those rumors or put them to bed once and for all. He will release all findings when the investigation is complete, and only then. The FBI will not comment on the investigation at any point; we will report our findings only to the commissioner, and the formal report will be issued out of that office."

"Got it," said Wallenstein, and he read the statement back to them. He looked at Eppes. "Are you issuing this statement to any other news agency?"

"As much as it pains me to say it, no," said Eppes, dourly. "I have given this exclusively to you, in exchange for your cooperation. We don't know how you got on to this story or where you got all of your inside information, but the NFL commissioner expects your cooperation going forward in exchange for this exclusive statement. Is that clear?"

An interview with Don Eppes with sole rights to his statement - another exclusive, thought Wallenstein, happily, and he nodded, along with Pete. "Yes, that's clear."

Eppes nodded, rose, and headed for the door. "Make sure you stick to the agreement, or you'll be dealing directly with me." He left, and Wallenstein and Pete looked at each other.

"Well," sighed Wallenstein, "I guess another exclusive is worth it, but there goes anything I can get out of my confidential source in the Warriors' locker room. And there goes the pictures I took today."

"Not necessarily," said Pete, with grin. "I told Eppes we would stay away from his family going forward. You took those pictures _before_ we made that agreement. However, we aren't the gossip rags; we always get permission from the subjects before publishing photos, and I doubt you would have gotten permission to use those, anyway, so no, we won't publish them. But as far as your contact goes, I said we would agree to publish _official _statements from the FBI and the NFL commissioner's office. When I mentioned the Warriors organization, I didn't say 'official'- I just said 'any information.'"

Wallenstein looked at him doubtfully. "I'm sure he thinks you meant official statements. "

Pete's grin widened, and he rose and clapped Wallenstein on the shoulder. "That's his problem. He should have listened more carefully. And there are other ways around this, if your source comes up with something good – just find an 'official' way to verify what he gives you." He tapped his jacket pocket. "I took the precaution of recording the conversation, just in case we need to defend ourselves. And you can still do a story on the brothers' unique working relationship – just use old file photos of each of them, and do some digging on past cases they've worked together. I'm sure you can conjure something up out of stuff that's already public knowledge."

"Yeah, okay," said Wallenstein, as his editor headed out of the room, but some of the excitement had left him. Doubt was eating away at his initial euphoria, and maybe a little guilt. He'd decided he liked – or at least respected – Eppes, in spite of the agent's obvious dislike of him. And if he wanted to get the crime beat job back and be in the business for a while, it wasn't good to burn bridges with a potential valuable contact, like Don Eppes. He might do better for himself to honor the agent's request. If Eppes thought he could trust him, it might mean help on some future stories. After they published Eppes' statement later today, Mark could afford to drag his feet for a couple of days. He already had two exclusives and had some good excuses not pursue more – he had football and hockey to games to cover.

He gathered up his notebook and pen and stepped back out to the office, where he met Bergen's baleful stare with a grin. Wallenstein couldn't help himself. "Another exclusive," he said, with a smile and a shake of his head. "What can I say? When you're good, you're good."

...

End, Chapter 9


	10. Chapter 10

Camouflage

_Author's note: Okay, most of the 'tease' is done - from Chapter 11 onward, the action really starts to ratchet up. Hope this holds you off for a week. :)_

Chapter 10

After leaving the offices of the L.A. Herald Don headed for the stadium, where Megan was faithfully plodding through the Warriors interviews on her own. On the way, he realized that it was lunchtime and he was starving, and he stopped for sandwiches. Then he dialed David Sinclair to find out how he and Colby were doing on the Ansel Stevenson murder. "David, how's it going?"

"_It's going_," said David. "_We've been to the lab, and also Donna Bainbridge's apartment. We're on our way to Stevenson's house now. Colby's in the car with me; we're on speaker_." Don could hear Colby speaking into his own cell phone in the background.

"You find anything other than what was in LAPD's preliminary report?"

"_Yeah, something that doesn't make a lot of sense. It looked like a lot of the files were gone, and maybe some samples, although it's hard to tell on those because we don't know what was there to begin with. If Bainbridge was going to kill Stevenson and steal the information, you would think she would have thought it out ahead of time – had some kind of plan. But when we got to her apartment, all of her things were there, down to her makeup, toothbrush, and stuff like that that. If she knew she was going to kill Stevenson and flee with the information, you would think she would pack a few things first and have some money handy. She didn't take any of her things with her, and she didn't have any money. She stopped at two ATMs last night for cash, and LAPD is checking for credit card hits._"

Colby spoke up. "_That was LAPD on the phone_," he said. "_They said she took out $5000 from a branch of her bank in north L.A. as soon as it opened this morning_."

"_There you go_," said David. "_This was obviously unplanned_ _on her part_."

Don frowned at the boulevard stretching away in front of him. "So she's a scientist, right? Presumably a reasonably intelligent person. Whether this was planned or not, why would she run? What evidence was there that pointed to her? Were her prints on the weapon?"

"_No,"_ said Colby, "_LADP said it was wiped clean – it had some of Stevenson's fingerprints on it from when it was put into his hand, but no one else's_."

"So, that's my point," said Don. "There isn't really any solid evidence against her. If she did it, why wouldn't she just go home and play innocent, and say she didn't do it? There'd be no hard proof that she did – and with him dead, she'd inherit the project anyway, free and clear. She wouldn't have to steal the information and run, and incriminate herself. It doesn't make sense. What were they working on, anyway?"

"_We're still trying to find out_," said David. "_The lab was funded by a small private pharmaceutical company named Biotech. We're trying to get hold of someone there and set up an interview, hopefully after we check out Stevenson's house_."

"Okay," said Don. "Keep me posted. And do me a favor – call Charlie and see if he or any of his scientist buddies have heard of this lab, or of Biotech."

"_Will do_."

Don hung up, still frowning, as he swung into the stadium lot. He found Megan in the same small room they'd used the day before, just as hungry as he was, and grateful for the sandwich. Together they plowed through several more player interviews over the remaining hours of the day. Finally, around six that evening, they finished up the last scheduled interview, and sat back to compare notes.

"What about Jarvis Trent, the quarterback?" asked Megan. "He's having a pretty good year. I saw them post his stats on TV last night. Why didn't Charlie pick him out?"

"I asked Charlie the same thing," said Don. "Jarvis Trent is a ten year veteran – he's been solid, but no superstar. He played backup QB for five years before he made starter with the Titans. They had a young superstar rookie they were grooming, and just used Trent to fill the gap until he was ready. When their star became starter last year, Trent went to the Warriors as a free agent. He had a lousy year last year; the whole team did, but that was expected because they were a brand new franchise."

"But this year, his pass completion rate is way up," said Megan.

"Right. When I asked Charlie about it, he said that Trent is doing slightly better this season throwing to all his receivers except one, and he is doing way better with that one, and way better with his passes to one tight end. Trent's overall performance is not statistically different than last year, especially when you factor in a year's worth of experience for all of the team– they've all had a year's worth of time to learn this offense, so they all should be a little better. He throws to two different tight ends and four different receivers. There were only two players who had a statistically higher level of receptions – a particular receiver and a tight end."

"Deondre Wiseman and Freddie Muhala," guessed Megan.

"Right again. Wiseman is having a record year by any receiver's standard, and his huge increase in receptions is driving up the quarterback's completion record, too. Muhala, too, has caught more passes than any other tight end this year. But Trent's performance with the other three receivers and the other tight end is not a whole lot better than some of his better years in the league. That's why Wiseman and Muhala made Charlie's list, and Trent didn't." He glanced through the notes. "Did you come up with anything interesting before I got here?"

"Nothing," Megan sighed. "Everyone I interviewed today was not on Charlie's list, and none of them seemed to be hiding anything. A lot of them made it clear that they don't appreciate our being here, especially during the playoffs." She glanced at the list. "We start on the staff tomorrow. I suggest we bump Trainer Frank up on the list."

"Good idea. We'll stop for today, and tomorrow, we'll do formal interviews with the owner, P. J. Murciano, and with Clayton Mansell, and Coach Rubacek. We'll hit a couple of others first – maybe the team docs, and then we'll do Trainer Frank. I don't want him to be suspicious because we put him too high on the list." He glanced at the time on his cell phone, and rubbed his face, wearily.

Megan studied him. "I could use a drink, and I hate to drink alone. Care to stop for one?"

Don hesitated for just a second, then said, "Yeah, sure. There's chi chi place in the hotel across from the stadium – it's pretty nice."

Megan made face. "No thanks. I don't do chi chi if I can help it. I found a great place a couple miles north of here – they have any beer you can name, and good burgers, too."

Don grinned. "Sounds good. Lead the way."

...

"Wait a minute," said Joey Cancetta into his burner. "Just hold on." He smiled at the bevy of girls clustered around him at the bar, enjoying happy hour, and said, "Excuse me a minute; I have to take a call. I'll be right back." He gave them his most charming smile and eased away from them.

As he headed for the door her heard one of them say, "A running back with dimples. Oh, my God."

"He's _damn_ fine," drawled another, and they dissolved into giggles.

He couldn't help but grin to himself as he pushed out the door and headed out to the alley beside the bar, but his grin faded as he glanced up and down it to be sure it was empty, and then spoke into the prepaid cell phone. "Deondre. What's up man?"

"_I don't know_." Deondre's voice was low and husky, despondent. "_This investigation shit. It's buggin' me_."

Joey frowned. "Buggin' you how?"

"_I don't know. I've been thinkin', what we're doin' just ain't right. This Magic shit an' all. I wasn't raised like this. I keep wondering what my mama would say if she knew_."

Joey gaped at the phone for a minute, then collected himself. "Deondre, you've got to be kiddin' me, man. Your mama? Come on, we aren't doin' anything that every other team isn't doin'. You think the players on the other teams aren't using the latest supplements? All we're doin' is leveling the playing field. You got nothin' to be ashamed of."

"_You think?_"

"I _know_," said Joey confidently. "Look man, I'm kinda busy right now, but I'll call you back later, okay? I know Frank said we shouldn't be callin' each other but it can't hurt to talk on the burners. I'm tellin' you though, don't change a thing. You aren't thinkin' about stopping, are you?"

"_N-no_," said Deondre, slowly.

"Look, Dee, we're almost there. Superbowl, baby. Get your ring, get through the season. Next season you can change it up if you want and quit takin' the stuff, but don't mess with success, not now. Everybody's dependin' on you. We'll talk later, okay?"

"_Okay._" Deondre sounded slightly heartened, but doubt still wound through his voice. He hung up, and Joey stared at the phone for a moment, thoughtfully. Then he hit speed dial.

When the voice on the other end answered, Joey said, "Frank."

Frank sounded irritated. "_Yeah, Joey, I'm busy; what do you want_?"

"Are you somewhere you can talk?

Frank's tone was more cautious now, and he said, "_Yeah, I can talk. What is it_?"

"I know you said we aren't supposed to meet, but I think you need to give Deondre a little pep talk. He just called me – he's all depressed about the investigation, says we're doin' the wrong thing. I tried to cheer him up, told him all the other teams are doin' it too, but I don't think I convinced him. I think he's thinkin' of stopping.'"

"_Shit._" Frank was silent for a minute. "_Okay, I'll pull him aside after the weight room tomorrow. Thanks for the heads up_."

"No problem," said Joey. "Later."

"_Later_."

Joey hung up, stuck the burner in his inside jacket pocket, and headed back to the door. On the way in, he checked his reflection in the bar window, smiling and checking out his dimples. He _was_ damn fine.

...

"Charlie, I think you should see a doctor," said Amita, hovering over him, anxiously.

"I think Amita is right, Charles," added Larry, his brow furrowed, sitting forward on a chair, on the other side of Charlie's desk.

Charlie, back in his office after another dash to the men's room, shook his head, wincing at the movement, and sat down shakily. "I can't afford it, and anyway, it's probably just the flu. In fact, you should both not be in here with me – you'll end up catching it, too."

"Nausea and headache could be symptoms of a concussion." Amita cocked her head at him, reprovingly. "If it _is_ your concussion and it's still bothering you this much, you should go back in for a check." She paused. "I still can't believe what happened to you. They haven't figured out who did it yet?"

"No. I doubt they will," said Charlie. "I didn't get a good look at him. Look, I appreciate the concern, but I have stuff to do, and you being here isn't a good idea if I'm sick. I have to load data to run an algorithm for Don, and I have work to do on the grant commission presentation."

He_ did_ appreciate their concern, and any attention from Amita was always welcome, and a part of Charlie could think of nothing better than being the object of her fussing. However, he was starting to feel lousy enough that he really wanted quiet, so he could get through what he had to and go home to rest. As they left, he looked at the clock. It was already past six, and he was on his last legs. His side and head were aching, and the nausea seemed worse.

Taking precedence over his physical symptoms, however, was the sinking feeling in his gut that he'd had since his argument with Don earlier. His brother's disapproval and accusations smarted, but worse yet was the fact that they'd had yet another argument over a case before they'd cleaned up the fallout from the last one. The day before, Don had been noncommittal when Charlie had hinted about renewing his contract, and Charlie, although he was notoriously bad at reading people, was convinced he was getting a bad vibe from his brother concerning his future as part of Don's team.

His head was pounding, and he winced and rubbed his temple. He had dismissed the idea that his concussion was causing some of his symptoms earlier that day, and had been hoping that his work on this case would put him back in Don's good graces, but now, he was beginning to wonder – on both counts.

The phone rang and he started, then stared at it blearily and picked up the receiver. It was a colleague in the chemistry department at UCLA, George Simmons. After Colby had called with Don's request, Charlie had emailed George to ask him if he heard of the local lab that was run by Stevenson.

"_Charlie, how are you? And I mean, really, how are you? I saw the paper today_."

Charlie grimaced. "Fine, George, I'm fine. I take it you got my email. You ever hear of that lab?"

"_Yes, I've heard of it. One of our students went to work there – Donna Bainbridge. She's been in the news today, too, and the whole thing has made those of us who know her sick. There's no way she did that_."

Charlie was a little lost – he'd gotten just the basics of the new case from David when the agent had called earlier to relay Don's request to look into the lab – and so Charlie hastily pulled up the local news on his computer and scanned through the article as George talked. Local scientist shot, and his research partner, Donna Bainbridge, was missing, with a BOLO out on her. She was LAPD's only suspect in the killing, according to the article.

George was still talking. "_Donna went to work there, just a month or two after she got her doctorate. She was a bright girl, great to work with, great personality. No one here can believe she could have shot anyone. There has to be more to it_."

Charlie studied the photo of Donna Bainbridge on the screen. She was an attractive young woman with long brown hair and a warm smile. "So what was she working on?"

"_Not sure. She kept in touch with a couple people in the department, but never talked about her work. It was something proprietary – it sounds like something they were developing, maybe trying to patent. Their lab was funded by Biotech, which is listed as a pharmaceutical enterprise on the web. It's a subsidiary of a larger company – can't remember the name now, but it's on the web, too. That's about all I know. Is your brother looking into this? The article just mentioned the LAPD_."

"Maybe," said Charlie. "I guess I'm not sure if he's calling the shots on this one, maybe the LAPD is, but sometimes they help each other out. Thanks for the info, George."

"_No problem, Charlie. Watch out for those blitzing linemen_."

Charlie made a face. "Yeah, I'll try."

He hung up and typed in 'Biotech' in his search engine, and scanned the selections. There was actually more than one company with that name, and the one he was looking for only had one entry, which didn't yield much except the address. He flipped the search toggle to 'news' and skimmed the articles that came up, clicking through two pages before he saw an article that made him sit straight up in his seat. He clicked it open, and read it with widening eyes, then grabbed his cell phone, and hit the speed dial button for Don's phone.

...

Don Eppes leaned back in the padded booth, and chewed meditatively on a French fry. Megan had been right; the bar had a great beer selections, and equally great burgers. "So why'd you get into the Bureau?"

Megan was leaning forward on her elbows, toying with her beer mug, and the question caught her a bit off guard. She shrugged, and grinned ruefully. "I was a little bit of a rebel in my day. Didn't have a great relationship with my dad. Half of the time I was trying to prove myself to him, and the other half I was trying to provoke him. I knew a career in law enforcement wasn't probably what he wanted for me, but on the other hand, it's a career I could be proud of – and that maybe he'd be proud of me if I did well. Classic daddy-daughter approval thing. I guess that fed into my decision as much as anything." She picked up her burger. "How about you? Why'd you join the Bureau?"

Don's eyes flitted away, then back to her. Megan, as a profiler, had been trained to read people, but she found her new boss as hard to decipher as anyone she'd encountered.

"You've got me, there," he said, with a small smile. "I started out playing baseball."

Her eyebrows rose, and she grinned. "Baseball!"

"Yeah, I was with a minor league team for a while, until I figured out the pros weren't for me. The Stockton Rangers. I ended up in Fugitive Recovery for a while, and then went to the Bureau. Spent some time in the Albuquerque office, and then my mom got sick. I put in for a transfer to L.A., to be with her and my dad while she fought cancer, and here I am."

Megan sobered. "Is she okay?"

He shook his head. "She passed away about a year and a half ago. It was a good thing I came back. Charlie was home, but he wasn't handling it too well, and my dad was pretty much dealing with it by himself. I've never regretted the move. I got to spend some time with her, and I was there afterward to help support my dad. And L.A. is home."

"You said Charlie was home. I take it he went away for school?"

Don's face was bland, and he wore an agreeable expression, but his eyes flickered at the mention of his brother. "Yeah, he was away studying – first at Princeton, spent some time at MIT and Oxford too. He left home at 13 to study – we graduated from high school the same year."

Megan's eyebrows rose. "Thirteen! David told me he was a prodigy, but that's pretty young. He went by himself?"

"Nah, my mom was with him, at least while he was at Princeton."

"That must have been hard on the family." She could begin to see reasons for potential conflict between the two brothers. A young genius with his requirements for the appropriate teaching – she imagined that would drain family resources, from both a time and a financial standpoint.

Don shrugged. "You could say that. We managed." He paused, then sighed and rubbed his face, hesitating. "I don't think Charlie and I ever connected too well. We did when we were smaller, but high school –well, I was five years older than him, physically and socially. We didn't have a lot in common in those days. He was not only young – he was just around ten or so when he started high school – he was small for his age, and he never has been a social whiz. He couldn't compete in sports against the bigger kids, and had a hard time making friends. Everyone thought of him as a little kid – a little kid who broke all the curves on the tests. I think high school was pretty hard on him. Back then, I didn't pay a lot of attention – he was buried in his books and I figured he was doing what he liked – mathematics."

"So maybe he _was_ doing what he liked," said Megan. "What makes you think he wasn't?"

Don shrugged and looked away. "Oh, I think he liked it well enough. It never really occurred to me that he might have wanted something more than that, though, until our senior year." He grinned ruefully. "My first clue was when we got in a knock-down drag-out fight on the front lawn over a girl. He wanted to take her to prom, and I asked her before he did. They were lab partners and I knew he kind of had a crush on her, but I never dreamed he'd ask her out – she was 18 and he was thirteen. Boy; was he mad. He came at me across the lawn like a linebacker." His grin faded, and Megan could guess at what he was thinking about – Charlie being on the receiving end of a tackle himself a couple of days before. Don took a swig of beer, and his face went unreadable again, and he said, briskly, as if ending the story, "Anyway, we went our separate ways then, for years, and just got back together a about a year and a half ago. So in response to your comment the other day, yeah, we're kind of working out way through this." He made a rueful face. "Not sure how that's going. He ticked me off last week, and I made him mad yesterday. I accused him of leaking the story to the Herald, before I found out that Wallenstein had pumped my dad for the info."

Megan winced. "Ouch."

"Yeah. Anyway, the jury's still out on how this will go – whether we'll continue to work together or not. But I appreciate your concern."

He changed the subject then, and Megan realized suddenly that his short explanation had been anything but an explanation. He'd remembered her offer to talk the day before and had taken her up on it – not to get anything off his chest, but to get her off his back. He'd given her just enough to make it sound as though he was giving her some real information, but he had just touched on the high points of both his and Charlie's history. He'd still revealed nothing about how he really felt about his brother. Not that she expected him to give it up to her – they were just getting to know each other after all – but his guarded treatment of the issue made her wonder if he really understood their relationship himself. It was a shame, she thought, because even she, for as short a time as she had been there, could see they had potential as a team – if they could just get over whatever baggage they had between them.

She'd actually requested the assignment in the L.A. office in part because she'd read an article in a newsletter from Quantico about a case the brothers had solved. The unconventional arrangement – a math professor consulting on cases – had appealed to her. It sounded new and innovative, and she'd thought that maybe an office that forward-thinking would be an exciting place to work. Now, it seemed that just as she'd arrived, her boss was considering ending the arrangement. '_It's a bit disappointing, but it's none of your business_,' she told herself, and forced her mind back to the conversation. She hadn't been paying attention and missed what he was talking about – but she was saved by the ring of Don's cell phone.

He answered, listening with a slight furrow between his brows. His eyes glinted with sudden interest. "Are you sure?" Pause. "Okay, yeah, thanks, Charlie." There was true gratitude and just a hint of warmth in his voice, and when he hung up, he had a dark smile on his face. "Charlie found out something interesting. Ansel Stevenson's lab was funded by a small pharmaceutical company named Biotech. I asked Charlie to see what he could find out about it. What he found was that Biotech is in turn part of a larger company named Murtech."

"Murtech?"

"A much bigger pharmaceutical company," said Don softly, leaning forward. "It's part of a multi-business conglomerate, owned by none other than P. J. Murciano, owner of the Warriors."

...

End, Chapter 10


	11. Chapter 11

Camouflage

_Author's note: I'm back – thanks for your comments. _

Chapter 11

"So here's the situation," Don said. He took a swig of coffee and leaned forward on the conference room table. "We're going back over to do doing staff interviews today. We'll start with the top three. When we get to Murciano, I'm going to drop a reference to the Stevenson murder, and see how he reacts."

David took a sip of his own coffee as Megan and Colby nodded. It was early Friday morning, seven a.m., and they were meeting in their usual conference room off the bull pen; there was no great need for privacy anymore, since the story had broken in the news. They had already discussed the Stevenson case; David and Colby had gotten Don and Megan up to speed on what they had found at Stevenson's house, which was not much, and Don had filled them in on Charlie's discovery the night before – that Stevenson's lab was connected to P.J. Murciano via his pharmaceutical companies, Biotech and Murtech. There was one other good outcome from the story in the newspaper; since the story was now public, Merrick had gotten the NFL commissioner's approval to use LAPD officers for assistance and surveillance of the team members as needed. That would take some of the pressure off the Don's team, and maybe cut back on some of the long hours.

David had a line of sight over Don's shoulder and through the door, and across the bullpen, he could see Charlie trudge around the corner and head toward them, his soft-sided briefcase slung over his shoulder. He looked tired; his usual loping gait lacked both velocity and spring. The door was open, but Charlie knocked respectfully on the door jamb and waited for Don's permission to enter. Also uncharacteristic behavior, David thought. Usually when Charlie had something for them, he bounded right in; his excitement over a find trumped manners, and he never bothered to knock. The gleam in his eye showed that he _did_ have something for them, however; David had worked on enough cases with Charlie to recognize that. He suspected Charlie was trying to be on his best behavior after the argument the week before.

Don turned. "Yeah, Charlie, come in."

"The data for the phone search finished running through the algorithm last night," said Charlie, as he stepped in and eased his briefcase onto the table. The bruise on his cheekbone was fading, but he looked thinner, and very tired. He was unshaven and his dark curly hair was more unruly than usual, and there were dark circles under his eyes – but then, they all had those, these days. He still seemed to be moving a bit gingerly, as if he was in pain. No doubt his ribs were still sore. "I set up an algorithm to check the phone numbers that our six suspects and Trainer Frank called during the last several months." He paused. "I didn't find anything."

Megan and Colby looked disappointed. Don frowned. "Nothing?"

"Nothing." Charlie smiled widely. "That's exactly it. Those seven guys meet regularly at Reese's house, according to the kicker, Peterson. They're friends. They occasionally call other team members or receive calls from them or from their coaches, and of course there are calls made to people outside of the team; family, friends – but there are no calls to each other. Well, I found two, but compared to the volume of their other calls, there were essentially none." He paused a moment to let that sink in.

"That doesn't make sense," said Colby.

"Right," said Charlie, happily. "The solution is null." David suppressed a smile; he could see that Don, Megan and he had all come to the same conclusion already. Charlie was encouraging Colby to get there himself, just as he would with one of his students.

"Null?" Colby looked confused; then smacked his forehead. "Aw, hell! They're calling each other – they've got to be! They just aren't using their own cell phones."

"Exactly," said Charlie, triumphantly, beaming in pleasure at Colby's leap of reason. He fished out a sheaf of papers and handed them to Don. "That's a printout of the results, for your files."

"They're using burners," said Megan. "They must have all agreed to use prepaid cells for some reason. That would imply an organized attempt to hide something."

Don grinned wolfishly. "One more piece of evidence that there is something going on with that group – something they don't want anyone to know about. Okay, then, for today, Colby and David, I need you to come with Megan and I this morning. I want the whole team to be there when we interview Murciano, Mansell, Coach Rubacek and Trainer Frank. After that, David and Colby, I want you to break off and continue to follow leads on Donna Bainbridge and the Stevenson murder. Megan and I will finish up the staff interviews." He nodded at them, and David, Colby and Megan gathered up their notes, rose and all filed out.

Charlie had lowered himself into a chair and was rummaging in his bag, and as the team got out to the bullpen David could see Don lay a hand on Charlie's shoulder, and say something with a smile and a rueful look. Charlie looked up at him quickly, as if a bit surprised; then he grinned back, and said something in reply.

"Looks like they made up," said Colby; he and Megan had seen the exchange, also.

"Yeah, it does," said David agreed. Megan said nothing. She was smiling, but speculation was in her green eyes.

"That's good," continued Colby. "The little guy kinda grows on you. Although I felt like I was being quizzed in there."

David grinned. "You were."

Colby made a face at him, then looked back at Charlie. "The Whiz Kid isn't lookin' too good, though. Looks kinda rough."

Megan yawned. "We all are. I'm grabbing another coffee before we hit the road. Any takers? I'm buying."

...

Deondre Wiseman took the concrete steps of his mother's house slowly. It wasn't where he'd grown up; that was in an inner city neighborhood in Chicago. He'd bought this house – a neat stucco near Burbank – for his mother when he'd moved to L.A. last year.

Although the house was new to her, his mother had made it her own. She'd brought much of her furniture from Chicago, and all of her knick-knacks and pillows and paintings, her religious items the most prominent among them. Loretta Wiseman was a devout Baptist, and had raised Deondre that way, on her own. She'd kept him out of trouble for the most part, in spite of the rough neighborhood they lived in. Growing up, he was her world, and she was his.

She answered the door with a smile that deepened the creases in her face and brightened her eyes. It was a wonderful smile, deep and loving and genuine, and somehow it made Deondre feel worse. "Hi mama," he said.

"My baby!" she exclaimed. "Come in, honey, I'll get you something to eat."

"That's okay, mama, I already ate," said Deondre. "I've got practice in a little while – I had to eat early. I just came by to say 'hi.'"

She regarded him, and cocked her head like a wise little bird. "I love that idea, baby, but you didn't come by just to say 'hi.' Come in, sit down, and tell me what's on your mind."

She stepped over to his favorite chair and patted it invitingly, and then sat down herself in her rocking chair and looked at him expectantly.

Deondre sat and looked at her, tongue-tied for a minute. Out of all the people in the world, he didn't want to disappoint her. "Mama, I need some advice. There are some of us on the team -," he stopped, started again. "Our trainer has been giving some of us – some vitamins."

Her face dropped, and he hastened to add, "Nothing illegal, or that's what he told us. I know you've been reading the stories in the papers, but I've been coming up clean on the testing. We all have, so I believed him."

She regarded him levelly. "But your heart is telling you something else."

Deondre's face twisted. "Yes. Trainer Frank has been telling us to keep it quiet – that the stuff is new and it's not illegal, but if we let them know it's out there, then the secret will be out for the other teams."

She said nothing, just nodded for him to continue.

"The problem is, it works, mama, and no one else has it. There are six of us taking it, and it's helped on everything – muscle gain, speed – and if no one else has it, it's an unfair advantage. The change in how we play is so obvious that the FBI is investigating us. We're winning, but we're cheating." He hung his head. "I don't know what to do. To do the fair thing, I should tell the feds what's goin' on. But then I let down my team, and all of our fans."

"Neither choice is easy," said his mother in a soft voice. "Either choice can hurt others. I can't tell you what to do, baby; it has to be your decision. You need to do what you think is right – what you feel in your heart is the right thing. Whatever you decide, I will stand by you and respect that decision."

Deondre was silent for a long moment, then nodded and stood. She walked him to the door, and he embraced her. "Thanks, mama," he said softly. "I love you."

"I love you, too, baby. I'll be at the game Sunday, watching." She smiled at him.

Her gentle, wise smile hung in his memory as he walked back down the sidewalk toward his car, and he waved at her as she stood in the doorway, as he pulled away. He never noticed the dark car parked halfway down the block, or the man inside it, watching.

...

Don opened the staff interviews with all three of the Warriors top management present: P. J. Murciano, the team owner, Clayton Mansell, the general manager, and Tony Rubacek, the head coach. He wanted to see all of their faces when he broached the subject of the Stevenson killing.

He started out by recapping their findings from the team interviews. "As you know, we've interviewed the members of your team, and we're starting on the staff today."

Clayton Mansell said with a smile, "You wouldn't break our hearts if you decided not to progress further. We have some playoff games to manage."

It was clear he'd intended his remark as more than half a joke, but Don kept his face cold and deadpan; a purposeful stereotype of the humorless federal agent – designed to provoke. He looked at Mansell. "We have not found anything definitive yet, but we have enough that we feel we need to continue with this investigation." He placed a recording device on the table in front on him, hit a button and said, "This interview is being recorded. The focus of our investigation is a group of six players: Jack Worth, lineman, Mike Reese, lineman, Deondre Wiseman, receiver, Joey Cancetta, running back, Freddie Muhala, tight end, and Leshawn Wilkinson, linebacker. He looked at Coach Rubacek. "Coach Rubacek, what can you tell me about them?"

Rubacek lifted a shoulder, looked at the other two as if for reassurance, and then back at Don and scratched his head. "What can I tell you about them? They're good players. Obviously in terms of performance, but also in terms of work ethic. They work hard in the weight room, they work hard on the field – they work hard, period."

David chimed in. "Ever see them take anything? Anything at all – supplements, vitamins?"

Rubacek gave a soft snort. "They all take supplements. Amino acids, protein – all legal stuff. Gotta be legal, or they wouldn't be passing their doping tests." He looked at them with a slightly incredulous smile. "You asking me if I've seen 'em shootin' up in the locker room? No. Of course not."

"What do you think, Mr. Mansell?" asked Megan. She was smiling pleasantly, but her green eyes looked sharp, catlike. "Do you think those six players perform above the norm?"

Mansell ran a hand over his slicked back hair, and gave her a look that was laced with a hint of disdain that he didn't manage to hide. It was obvious he didn't care to field questions from a woman. "Of course I do. So do some other players on the team, and some other players in the league. We are fortunate enough to have several guys on this team who are having a good season. It happens – and a lot of times it happens to players no one paid any attention to before. Some of it's hard work, like Ruby said, and some of it's luck – the way the cards fall. Some of it's good coaching. I for one am not apologizing for having a good season, or a bunch of hardworking players."

Don leaned back in his chair with a slight smile, and looked at P. J. Murciano. "So Mr. Murciano, it's to you. What do you think of the Stevenson murder?"

Murciano had been leaning forward politely, relaxed, with his hands lightly clasped on the table, with a bland pleasant expression. He had obviously been formulating his own reply for a question about the six suspect players, and Don's change of subject had stunned him – but only momentarily. His smile faded and his relaxed hands tightened, and for a split second he stared at Don without appearing to breathe. Then he recovered. "I'm sorry," he said, with relative smoothness. "Your question caught me off guard. I thought we were talking about the six players you mentioned. Are you investigating the Stevenson murder now? I thought that was an LAPD case."

Mansell and Rubacek were staring at him, confused, and Murciano caught their expressions and explained. "There was a murder at a local lab yesterday; a research chemist named Ansel Stevenson. He ran that lab; it was funded by a subsidiary of one of my companies." He looked at Don, with a hopeful expression. "Is the FBI involved? I certainly hope so – whoever murdered him not only killed a brilliant man in cold blood, they made off with a lot of proprietary information – information that belongs to my company, and therefore, to me. I'd like it back." He frowned. "But I'm confused, I must admit. I thought today's inquiry was related to the NFL investigation."

"It is," said Don. "And yes, the FBI has been called in on the Stevenson case – my team, as a matter of fact. I just wanted your take on what happened. You're right; let's stick to the NFL investigation. Give me your impression of those six players."

And with that, Murciano launched into his prepared reply, which sounded a lot like Mansell's and Rubacek's. Poor, hard-working players, unfairly singled out. Don let him drone on, with an eye on Mansell and Rubacek. If the murder of Stevenson was somehow connected to the six players and their performance, it was news to Mansell and Rubacek – they had looked utterly confused by both Don's question about Stevenson and by Murciano's response. Murciano hadn't looked confused as much as he'd looked startled – and then he had jumped in and immediately made attempts to smooth over that impression as quickly as he could. His reaction smacked of guilt, but there was no way yet to prove it. And by the same token, Mansell and Rubacek appeared to be not guilty – at least of any involvement in the murder. The question was – were the murder and the players' performance related? Apart from Murciano, there was only one person that Don knew of who could tie them together – and she had been missing for nearly two days, now.

...

Frank Sczechnewski was not in a good mood. His interview with the feds had seemed to go well that morning, until they started asking questions about the six suspect players, and whether he had ever spent time with them at Reese's house. How they got the information that they hung out at Reese's together he didn't know, but it rattled him. He thought he'd come up with a decent enough response, admitted that yeah, those players sometimes got together and had a few beers, and sometimes they invited him along. No sense lying about it, if the feds already knew. He managed to get out of there without doing any damage, but the whole thing had thrown his gut in a knot. The damned feds had kept looking at him like they knew what was going on – and then Murciano had pulled him aside later and told him they'd asked him about Stevenson. So the feds were putting two and two together, or at least trying to. "This sucks," he muttered.

He'd been observing Worth doing bench presses, with Reese spotting, and Reese looked at him. "What sucks?"

Jack Worth lowered the heavy weighted bar into its bracket so he could hear the reply. Frank knew he shouldn't be saying anything to them, but it was boiling up inside; and he probably needed to warn them, anyway. He spoke quietly, so the rest of the players in the room couldn't hear him. "The damn feds. They know we hang together at your house, Mike. They've got all six of you pegged as suspicious – and me too, probably for hanging with you. Relax," he hastened to add, as looks of concern crossed their faces. "They don't have anything – they can't prove nothin.' We just need to keep doin' what we're doin' – lay low – until they go away. But I think if you've got stuff at your place, you better find somewhere good to hide it, in case they decide to get warrants."

Jack had sat up on the bench, and he growled. "Someone needs to give them an incentive to go away."

'_That's already been taken care of_,' thought Frank to himself, but he just said, "Just lay low. I gotta go tell the others to make sure they hide their stuff." In a louder voice he said, as he walked away, "Add some more weight to that bar, Worthy – don't be a puss."

He managed to pull aside Joey Cancetta, Leshawn Wilkinson and Freddie Muhala and to give them the same warning. He saved Deondre for last, and told him to meet him after the workout.

Deondre dutifully approached him after the others had filed out, his dark eyes troubled. "Yeah, Trainer Frank? You wanted to talk to me?"

Frank looked at him for a moment, let the silence build, then he said, quietly, but with menace in his voice, "You ain't been talkin' to the feds about what we've got going, have you?"

Deondre's eyes widened, and his dark skin turned ashy. "N-n-no," he stammered. "Why?"

"Because someone told 'em we hung out together at Reese's house. They got all six of you pegged as suspects – that little geeky math professor ran some statistics or somethin' to pick you all out, but someone _told_ 'em about Reese's."

Deondre shrugged, but he looked nervous. "Could have been anyone. Lots of players probably know we go there sometimes."

That was true enough, Frank thought, but he still thought Deondre looked guilty, and Joey's phone call the other night about Deondre's doubts had made him suspicious. He leaned forward, and hissed in Deondre's face. "You listen to me. We catch wind that you're even _lookin_' at a fed, and you're in deep shit. You even _think_ about lettin' down this bunch of guys who have had your back all season, and you will live to regret it."

"I'm not!" protested Deondre, and he threw his hands up.

Frank poked him in the chest. "You better not be. Now go home and make sure you find a good hidin' place for your shit. Somewhere outside your house if you can find a safe spot. The feds might decide to get warrants and do some searches."

"Okay," Deondre mumbled, and he hung his head and walked away. Frank watched him go, frowning.

...

Charlie slid into a chair at the table opposite his older brother, and smiled. "Hi."

The truth was, he really didn't want to go out to dinner – he wasn't able to eat too many things these days anyway without getting nauseated, and he still had work to do on the grant presentation that was coming up the next week. But it was 7:30 on a Friday evening; he'd have the whole weekend to work on it, and an invitation to dinner with his brother was too rare to pass up – even if Don's team was invited, as well. Even that was a plus; maybe after his help on the case, Don was again considering him part of the team…

Don smiled back. "Hi yourself. Nice work on that phone list - and the Murtech find."

Charlie flushed with pleasure at the compliment, but he still felt a bit ill at ease – Don was studying him like a cat watching a fishbowl. "Thanks. Do you have something else for me? Is that why we're meeting with David and Colby?"

"When they get here they're gonna give me an update on what they found this afternoon on Donna Bainbridge, and yeah, if you've got any ideas how we can narrow down the search for her, we'd like to hear them. But mainly I figured you could use a good square meal." He paused, his eyes searching Charlie's face. "Dad called me – he's pretty concerned about you. He says your head still hurts and you aren't eating too much. He said he's been trying to get you to go back to the doctor, or at least get some rest."

Charlie shrugged, but he felt a little warm feeling inside. Don was concerned about him. The truth was, he was a little concerned himself; he seemed to be feeling worse by the day instead of better, but he had been reading about concussions, and apparently the symptoms could linger for quite a while. "I've been pretty busy."

"Yeah, Dad's accusing me of working you too hard," said Don drily, as he picked up a menu.

Just like that, the warm feeling evaporated. Don wasn't really concerned; he was just trying to make sure their father wasn't holding him liable for Charlie's health issues. Charlie scowled at his menu, suddenly in a bad mood. "I never told him that."

Don was looking at him over the top of his menu, with a perplexed expression. "I never said you did. Relax, and pick out something – it's on me."

Charlie sent him a cautious glance, and slowly picked up the menu. The truth was, apart from something extremely bland – plain pasta, potatoes or rice – he was having a hard time keeping anything down. He glanced down the list. A plain baked potato, maybe; that looked pretty harmless. He looked up as Colby and David slid into chairs beside him and Don.

Colby ended up next to Charlie, and he nodded at him. "Hey there, Whiz Kid." It was the first time Charlie had heard the nickname, and he blushed again, half embarrassed and half pleased, as Colby said, "Is Megan coming?"

"Nah, it's just us," said Don. "She headed back to the office to write up reports from our interviews this afternoon." The waitress was heading their way and he broke off. He had selected a table off by itself in its own partitioned section at the very back of the restaurant, and had situated himself so he could see the entire room, so he could see if anyone was approaching, to avoid being overheard.

Don ordered a pitcher of beer for the table, and the waitress took their food orders, and when she left, Colby looked at Charlie and said, "A plain baked potato? Are you on some kind of diet?" He clapped a muscular hand on Charlie's shoulder. "Dude, I hate to tell you, but you need a diet like you need a hole in the head."

Don was frowning at Charlie across the table, obviously taken aback by his menu choice, but he said nothing about it; instead he looked at David. "What did you find this afternoon?" Charlie, embarrassed and grateful for the diversion, slunk down in his chair a bit.

David grimaced, ruefully. "Not much. There's a BOLO out for her or her vehicle, but so far no dice. A couple of false reports, as usual; LAPD checked them out. Her mother is deceased, and her dad is remarried and living in Georgia, hasn't heard from her since the shooting. Neither has her sister in Virginia. They're both kind of freaked out by all of this. Neither one had any idea of what she was working on – they said she didn't talk about it. Her sister was pretty sure that she wasn't dating anyone, so she's probably not shacked up with a significant other. Wherever she is, she's living off the cash she took out from the ATM – there are no hits on her ATM card, and no credit card charges."

"What about the cell phone trace?"

Colby shook his head. "She ditched her phone the night of the shooting. LAPD checked out her phone records, looking for acquaintances, but she really didn't have many. Her call lists included her sister, one to her dad a couple weeks back, some local friends from UCLA – LAPD already checked them out – and her boss, Ansel Stevenson."

"Ditched her phone; and she's using cash. Smart girl," said Don thoughtfully. The beer came, and they stopped talking until the waitress had filled four mugs and left. Charlie hadn't wanted one, and he eyed his mug dubiously as Colby slid it in front of him. "Some of it sounds like planning, but some of it doesn't."

David looked at Colby, then back at Don. "We've got a theory. LAPD has been operating under the assumption that Bainbridge was at the lab that night and killed Stevenson, and stole the research material. They also concede a second possibility – that the killer was someone else, and that person also did away with Donna Bainbridge somehow, and stole the material. Without either Bainbridge or Stevenson to speak up, they could publish the material as their own, or otherwise use the research, and no one would be around who knew enough about it to claim that it wasn't theirs to publish."

"But there's a third theory, that Colby and I came up with," he continued, "and that is that Bainbridge was at the lab that night and took the research material, but didn't kill Stevenson. Maybe somehow she got tipped off that the killer was after her, and she got the stuff and ran before the killer could get to her."

Colby added, "We think there's a chance she might have been hiding in a room off the lab, that night. LAPD found fresh fingerprints – hers – on the door handle to the room, and on the plastic cover of a large piece of lab equipment inside the room – but only on the side away from the door. The cover is relatively dusty, and apart from the fingerprints the dust hadn't been disturbed, so it hadn't been removed recently. So, she didn't have her hands on the cover to remove it – she must have just rested her fingertips on it. LAPD didn't have a theory as to why, but we do – we think she might have been standing behind it and peering around it, and placed her fingertips on it as she did. If she was hiding in there, she was hiding from someone."

"The killer," said Don slowly. "We might have ourselves a witness."

David nodded. "Right. So our theory goes on – after the killer leaves, she realizes that they might be after her, also. She grabs the research material and runs. She's afraid to come in and give herself up because of the killer, and is probably aware that she is now a suspect. If that's the case, we've got to believe that she'll find herself a lawyer and come in on her own, sooner or later, as long as we can guarantee her protection. "

Their food arrived, so the conversation ceased until the waitress left. Charlie had been lost in the discussion and had almost absently been sipping at his beer and found to his surprise that it was half gone, and he was actually a bit hungry. He dug into his potato as the discussion resumed.

Don nodded. "Okay. That's a good theory – but either way, we can't stop looking for her - we can't just assume she'll lawyer up and come in on her own. What did you find out from the people at Biotech? Did they know what Stevenson and Bainbridge were working on?"

They shook their heads, and Colby said, "They didn't know much – other than the fact that it was cancer research – some kind of therapy to deliver medicine to tumors. The details were kept pretty hush-hush – Stevenson and Bainbridge were going to publish the results of the study, and the director at Biotech said they were preparing paperwork to file a patent as soon as they did so. But he didn't know much of the detail."

David said, "Interestingly enough, the director pointed us back to Murciano. He said the decision to fund Stevenson came down to him from the director of the bigger company, Murtech, but he was told the direction came straight from Murciano. So Murciano may know something that even his own people at Biotech or Murtech don't know."

Don shook his head, ruefully. "I was thinking that our suspicions of player doping and a chemical research lab might have been connected – but cancer research? It doesn't sound like it." He took a bite of steak and chewed, meditatively. "Bottom line is; we're at a dead end until we find Bainbridge. Charlie, is there anything you can do with what we know?"

"Possibly," said Charlie slowly. "The bank she withdrew the money from was on the north side of L.A. so it appears she was heading north – perhaps arbitrarily, but chances are good she didn't backtrack south through L.A., because L.A. was where the perceived threat was. She wouldn't head west – she couldn't get far enough away before she hit water. So she most likely went north or east, and she would have used the easiest routes possible to do that – highways most likely, unless traffic was too heavy on them for her liking. I can do an analysis of the traffic patterns at the time when she was in the last place we know of – her bank, the morning after the shooting – and see what her likeliest routes might have been from there."

"Good," said Don. The remainder of the meal was spent on small talk, and by the end of it, Charlie was regretting both the potato and the beer. His stomach had started to churn again, his mind was already on the additional assignment he'd just taken, and he wanted to get out of there. Finally, Don was ready to go, and he paid the tab as Colby and David sat finishing their beer. "See you tomorrow," he said.

"Okay. See you, Whiz Kid," said Colby, with a grin and a nod at Charlie. "Do yourself a favor and find a new diet." Charlie flushed, and followed Don toward the door.

Charlie had taken a cab there and Don had offered to give him a ride home, and as they headed out to the parking lot tucked in back of the restaurant, Charlie could feel the nausea building. It was dark and there seemed to be no one else in the lot, and Charlie figured that was a good thing, because he felt he was going to lose his dinner – and soon. Between his preoccupation with his stomach and darkness of the lot, he never noticed the two large figures that slipped out from their hiding place behind a car, and crept toward them.

...

End, Chapter 11


	12. Chapter 12

_Camouflage_

Chapter 12

Jack Worth and Mike Reese cruised through the dark parking lot behind the restaurant, and Reese pointed. "There's his SUV – it's still there. He's still inside."

Worth could feel the adrenaline rush, could feel the blood pumping. What they were doing was crazy, but he'd gotten away with it once – and someone had to back Eppes off. What he didn't realize was the extent of how crazy it really was, because the massive doses of steroids had altered his brain to the extent that he was not thinking straight, and he was subject to the excesses and mood swings that were sometimes called 'roid rage.'

The rage had taken hold of him earlier that evening after weight training; he and Reese had happened to walk out to the parking lot at the time that the feds – Eppes and the woman – were leaving for the day. They parted, and Worth, his anger building, watched Eppes cross the lot toward his SUV, and had the notion to rush the agent on the spot, tackle him, take him out and pound the crap out of him, just like he had with his younger brother, but even his overly aggressive brain had known that was crazy. Much better to get a mask and some gloves, and do it in some dark spot at night somewhere...

He and Reese had decided after practice they needed a break from Trainer Frank's rules. In spite of Frank's warnings, they'd made up their minds to go out for a beer together, and Jack had offered to drive. As Worth pulled out of the lot, the thought of beating in Eppes' face still stuck in his head, and when he found himself on the street a couple of cars in back of Eppes' SUV, he decided to follow him. It took a block or two, but when he failed to head in the direction of their favorite watering hole, Reese finally figured out they were going the wrong way, and looked at him from the passenger seat. "What're you doin'?"

"That's Eppes up there," said Worth, with a nod toward the SUV. They could see the top of it over the two cars in front of them.

"So?"

"So, let's follow him for a bit, maybe see where he lives."

Reese looked at him, looked back up at the SUV and then back at Worth. "Where are you goin' with this?"

Worth looked at him with a cold smile. "Where do you think? You heard me today with Trainer Frank. Someone needs to back him off."

"That's nuts, man," said Reese, but he looked back out the windshield with interest. They followed Eppes for a few blocks to the highway, and Reese said, "You know, we could get masks, and gloves, get him alone somewhere…,"

Worth smiled, and a broken tooth peeked out from under the reddish-brown bushy growth on his face. "Great minds think alike."

With that, they were committed, and they followed Eppes up the highway until he got off at an exit. There they dropped back four cars to make sure they weren't seen, and actually lost him for a block or two, until they turned a corner and saw the SUV pulling off the street in an alley that led to the parking lot for a restaurant. Worth was familiar with it – his apartment wasn't too far away. It was already growing dark, and as they watched Eppes walk toward the restaurant entrance, Worth said, "He'll probably be in there for a while – let's go grab some dark clothes and gloves and a mask, and come back and wait."

"He's probably meeting someone," said Reese. "There's no guarantee he'll come out alone, or that the parking lot will be empty when he does."

Worth shrugged. "Then we follow him back to his place. We'll already have the stuff for the job. If we get an opportunity, great, and if we don't, we don't – or we try another night." He threw his truck into gear and grinned. "My place is just a few blocks away; I've got some dark clothes. I'm a little bigger than you – they ought to fit you. There's a sporting goods store a couple of blocks down from here where we can get ski masks."

Reese gave a single nod and looked away. After a minute he said, "You are not bigger than me."

They stopped and bought the masks and a pair of gloves first – Worth knew he had another pair at home. To make it not look so suspicious, he also bought a parka. If anyone ever questioned him, he had a good excuse – the Superbowl was in the domed stadium in Minneapolis this year - and it was damn cold in Minneapolis in February. Then they went to Worth's place and changed clothes, then ran through a drive-through and got a sack of burgers, and went back to the restaurant to wait. Worth parked a couple of blocks away and they walked through a back street to the restaurant lot, found a dark place to sit between an adjoining building and the lot, and they sat there and ate. A man and his wife came out, then two women. They never saw the two dark figures in the shadows; they got in their cars and drove off. After a few more minutes, Eppes came out, but he was not alone – his brother was with him.

"What d'ya think?" whispered Reese.

Worth scanned the lot. It was dark, and empty, and it had filled up with patrons' cars while they sat there – there probably wouldn't be a lot of people leaving yet because he could tell by the position of Eppes' SUV that many of them had arrived after Eppes, and therefore hadn't been in there long. He couldn't see any surveillance cameras. He pulled his mask over his head. "Let's do this," he said. "Quick – in and out. We can take both of them out – but focus on the agent. I want to give that bastard a beating he'll remember. His brother's a wimp – we can flick him aside like a flea."

Reese pulled on his mask and they quietly slipped out of their hiding spot and ran, crouching, to a vantage spot behind a Jeep. As soon as the brothers passed, they sprang, rushing their targets like they were rushing an opposing team's running back.

Reese blasted the younger Eppes out of the way; he went flying into the side of a sedan. Don Eppes had heard their footsteps and turned just as his brother was hit, but there was nothing he could do because Worth was on him, a rushing freight train of mass and muscle. He drove the agent into the side of a Chevy Impala, and Eppes, stunned, slid down the passenger door. Worth lunged, trying to land a punch, but Don came to his senses just in time and ducked, grabbing Worth's arm and using it to pull himself to his feet before Worth could adjust. Worth's next punch with his free arm connected with the agent's face, but he couldn't swing with full force because Don was holding him. Don staggered but kept his feet – but by now, Reese was on him too, and landed a punch to the agent's gut that doubled him over and dropped him to his knees.

They both raised their fists for another blow, but Don somehow managed to push past the pain enough to lunge forward and grab Reese around the knees. Reese lost his balance and did a strange dance, trying to regain his feet and disengage from the agent's desperate hold. They heard Don yell, "Charlie – run!" and they both knew that they didn't have much more time. Reese, still hopping and staggering, trying to free himself from Eppes' grasp, saw Worth raise his fist for a mighty blow to the agent's unprotected head, and he tried to turn his head to see if the younger Eppes was moving, expecting to see him stagger away – if he was moving at all.

Instead, Reese saw a small dark form coming toward them, low and fast, and the professor hit the side of Worth's knee with all his might. Worth lurched sideways, grunting in pain, and almost simultaneously there was the sound of retching, and yells of "Stop! FBI!" from the end of the lot.

Reese's heart jumped as he saw the two other agents – Granger and Sinclair - running toward them from the restaurant entrance, and he yanked on Worth's arm, and they sprinted through the lot and out and down the other alley toward the truck, Worth limping a bit, but still charging, like a bull. The two agents paused just briefly near the Eppes brothers to make sure they didn't need immediate care and then they were in hot pursuit, but they were too far back. Worth and Reese rounded the corner of a building and there was the truck, and they jumped in; Worth started it and pulled ahead and down a cross street down and around another building, Reese watching out the back window.

Worth turned another corner and pulled onto the main street into the flow of cars, then down a couple blocks before he turned again, winding through side streets toward his apartment. "We're clean," said Reese, breathing heavily. "I was watching. They didn't get around the first corner in time to see the truck – they won't be able to ID us."

Worth swore, letting out a stream of nasty epithets. "That little bastard popped my knee. He cut-blocked me from the side. And then he puked all over my shoes."

Reese sniffed and made a face, and grinned. "He sure did. I'd say he just paid you back. You smell like crap." He clapped Worth on the shoulder. "That was a rush, man. Let's go back to your place – we can change and go out for a beer – get seen in public someplace. It'll be a good alibi if we need one."

Worth was still scowling, but his face slowly relaxed, and a small smile crept to his lips. "Hell, yeah. That was a rush, all right."

* * *

><p>Don and Charlie both lay there against the side of the Impala, gasping for a moment, and then Charlie looked over at Don, anxiously. "Are you okay?"<p>

Colby and David came pounding back up to them, and they both leaned over their knees, winded. "We lost them," David managed, his words punctuated by gasps for air. "They got around the corner – and into a vehicle – and got out of there – before we could see what they were in. We could hear the engine – but we didn't get around the corner in time to get a look."

Don grimaced at the report, and said, "Yeah, Charlie, I think so," wincing as he slowly pulled himself to his feet, and then, with a hand on his gut, extended his other hand to his brother. "Nice tackle, there, buddy. I was about to get my head caved in."

"What happened?" breathed Colby, still sucking air.

"Two big guys jumped us. And I mean big," said Don, wincing again and leaning on the car for support as he pulled Charlie up. "Dressed in dark clothes, with masks and gloves. They threw Charlie into the side of that car, and then went for me. I got hold of one of them by the legs, and then Charlie - ," a pain-skewed smile came onto his face, "Charlie tackled the one about to hit me. Hit a sweet spot – the side of his knee – and then puked on him, for good measure."

An incredulous grin spread over Colby's face. "Seriously? You took him out, then you puked on him? Nice move, Whiz Kid!"

Charlie, who was swaying a bit and looking pale, managed a lopsided smile himself at that, and straightened. "Yeah, I guess so."

"So you don't have any idea who it was?" said David, looking at Don.

"Oh, I have an idea all right," said Don darkly. "I just can't prove which players, exactly – at least not yet. But I can guarantee you; Murciano and the commissioner are both getting a call – tonight."

Colby chuckled again. "Puked on his shoes," he repeated, shaking his head.

"Yup," said Charlie, with a big grin. He sounded loopy, and they all looked at him – just in time to see him sway, stagger, and topple over.

* * *

><p>"Stupid!" hissed Murciano. "Just plain stupid!"<p>

Frank and Rocky looked at each other, then Frank looked back at Murciano. They were seated across from him in his office on the topmost floor of the stadium, and Frank said grimly, "I know. After you got Eppes' call, I figured out who it might have been – Worth said something about getting Eppes to back off in the weight room today, but I never dreamed he'd act on it. I went and found the assholes after you called me. They were sitting in a bar – which also went against what I told them, which was to steer clear of each other during the investigation – but what they did tonight was beyond even that - beyond stupid. I pulled them aside and told them they had better never even think of doing anything like that again, and they had better hope that they weren't identified – and if they were, they needed to take the rap and keep their mouths shut about anything else. They had the nerve to act pissed at first, but then I reminded them that they had a two-year contract that was expiring the end of this season, and we'd be happy to unload them if they didn't shape up. That got to them."

Murciano grunted. "It would. It's all about money – I've seen it before. The assholes start earning the big bucks and getting all the public adulation, and they start to think they're above everything, including the law."

Frank nodded. "But they both know they wouldn't be the same players on another team. They wouldn't have access to the pharmaceuticals. So I'm sure they'll cooperate, going forward. It's Wiseman I'm worried about."

Murciano frowned. "How so?"

"Joey Cancetta called me the other night and said Wiseman called him, all depressed and anxious over what they're taking and whether it was the right thing. Cancetta talked to him and tried to calm him down, but he wasn't sure if he succeeded or not – and when he hung up with him, he called me and told me. I pulled Deondre aside today after the workout and told him he better not be thinking about talking to anybody, especially the feds. He said he wasn't thinking about talking to them, but he had this guilty look about him – I can't explain it, but I'm not sure he even knows what he wants to do. It's making me nervous."

Murciano said, "That's not good," and he was silent for a long minute. Then he looked at Rocky.

"You know how to set up bugs," he said, and Rocky nodded.

Murciano turned to Frank. "Get Wiseman a new phone – a new burner. Make up some excuse – like you tried to call him on the phone he's got now and the call wouldn't go through – or maybe tell him we're switching them all out for security reasons. In fact, that's a good idea – switch them all out, for all six of them. Rocky'll put a bug in the phones before you give 'em to them, and he'll get into Wiseman's apartment while he's at practice and put one in his apartment phone. I want his calls monitored, and it wouldn't hurt to monitor the others too – especially those assholes, Worth and Reese. If they act up again, or if Wiseman's talking about going to the feds, we need to know."

Frank nodded. "Okay."

"What about the Bainbridge woman?"

Frank and Rocky exchanged glances again, and Rocky spoke up. "We've got nothing. We're coming up completely cold."

Murciano was silent for a long moment, then he said, "It's time. We need to make that phone call – first thing Monday morning – we'll do it the way we discussed. Too many things are happening – there are too many things coming unraveled. We need to put an end to this." He looked at Rocky. "You make the arrangements and the call. How hard would it be to bug Eppes?"

Rocky snorted. "The FBI offices – no way. His apartment – maybe. We need to decide if that's worth the risk – I don't know how much business he conducts out of there. And it might be as tough as the offices, depending on the security."

"You're right," said Murciano. "The apartment might not be worth the risk."

Rocky nodded. "His vehicle, though, probably – yeah, I can do that easy enough."

"Okay," said Murciano. "You know what to do."

* * *

><p>"I checked out okay," said Don. He was tired; he and Charlie had been at UCLA Medical Center for two hours now. He gingerly put his shirt back on and regarded his father, who sat in a chair on the other side of the exam room. "How's Charlie?"<p>

Alan Eppes looked at his son as he put on his shirt, noting the red weal on his torso and the bruise on his face, both of them reminiscent of Charlie's injuries a few days before. "Still in radiology – they're doing a scan of his head. How long was he out?"

Don shook his head. "Not long, but it was long enough to scare the hell out of me. One minute he was standing there talking to us, and the next, he was taking a header. Luckily, Colby and I caught him before he hit the ground. He came to on the way to the hospital in the back of David's car. He seemed groggy for a minute, but as soon as he found out we were coming here, he started complaining – so that was a good sign. He did not want to take the time to come here."

"Well, I for one am glad – he's been sick since he was hurt, and I've been trying to get him in here to get checked out." A small grin crept across Alan's face. "You say he tackled one of them? I never would have believed it."

Don smiled. "Yeah, he hit the guy in probably the only place he could that would hurt him – in the knee, from the side. Then he threw up on the guy's shoes."

Alan chuckled, then sobered. "He's been doing a lot of that lately. He can't keep too much down. He thinks it's flu."

As he spoke, the door, already slightly ajar, opened, and a doctor entered. He had sandy hair, and creases at the corners of his eyes that deepened when he smiled. "He might be right," he said, catching Alan's last comment. He extended his hand. "I'm Doctor Swanson, Charlie's attending physician. He told me I could talk to you while he was in radiology."

Alan shook his hand, introducing himself. "And that's his brother, Don – he was with him when Charlie passed out."

"Good – I have a couple of questions for you first," said Swanson, looking at Don. "I understand your brother had a concussion a few days ago. Charlie said he was in an altercation tonight – did he hit his head again during it, or when he passed out?"

"He didn't hit his head when he passed out – we caught him," said Don. "I'm not sure about during the fight – he was thrown against the side of a vehicle, and got up kind of slowly – I'm not sure if he hit his head or not. It looked like his back took the brunt of the impact with the car, but I didn't see all of it – I was a little preoccupied, myself."

Swanson scribbled a note. "Okay, and when he passed out, did he collapse completely – was he still? Or were there convulsions or spasms of any kind?"

Don frowned. "He was completely still – like he'd fallen asleep."

"Okay, good," said Swanson. "His scan will tell us if there is anything to worry about there, but when I examined him and questioned him, I didn't see a lot of neurological symptoms other than headache, which was understandable considering his concussion a few days ago. I'm thinking it's more his eating habits – and the fact that he's having a hard time keeping down food, coupled with the exertion during the fight – that made him pass out. His blood work came back a few minutes ago – it looked fairly normal – there were a few enzymes, white blood cells and so on that were a bit off, but most of those readings could be explained by his lack of a proper diet. Just to be safe, we're also doing another X-ray of his ribcage injury, to make sure there's nothing else going on there that could be causing this."

He looked at Alan. "He said he lives with you. Has he been under a lot of stress lately?"

Alan looked at Don, and then back at the doctor. "You could say that," he said drily. "He's been assaulted twice in the past week, and is carrying a heavy load at school and on his consulting job for the FBI right now. Yes, he's pretty stressed."

Swanson made a note. "And typically, how would you say he handles stress?"

Alan looked at Don again, and Don knew he was thinking of Charlie's somewhat disturbing tendency to retreat to their garage for days, immersing himself in numbers, when under stress. He'd done it when their mother was sick, and had done it again when Don had been shot during another investigation. "Not well," Alan admitted. "He can get rattled fairly easily – and he has a tendency to hold it in and retreat, and obsess over mathematical equations."

The doctor raised his eyebrows. "Okay. Well, there is the definite possibility of a touch of the flu, here, or maybe it is purely stress that is causing this, or perhaps a combination. In the absence of any findings in radiology, that will probably be my assessment – but we'll check the scan results to be sure. I don't think you have any cause for alarm, though. In fact, if his radiology reports come back negative, I'll probably let him go home tonight. Try to encourage him to get plenty of fluids, rest, and let him eat what he feels comfortable with until his symptoms pass. If he should experience another loss of consciousness, or if the flu-like symptoms persist, get him back in here." He nodded at them and headed for the door. "I'll touch base with you when his results are back."

After Swanson had gone, Alan let out a big sigh. "Well, that's a relief." He shook his head. "You two are going to be the death of me."

About an hour and a half later, Charlie was released. Don had already gone with David and Colby back to the restaurant to pick up his SUV and to meet with LAPD officers who were canvassing the parking lot for clues. Alan hovered close by Charlie as he climbed into the passenger seat, then got into the driver's seat. Charlie yawned as they pulled away, obviously tired out by the events of the day and the hours he'd spent at the hospital.

Alan had figured he'd be cross, but unexpectedly, Charlie smiled. "I told you it was the flu," he said, and Alan could hear the relief in his voice.

Alan sighed, then shook his head and smiled himself. Flu, he could handle.

* * *

><p>Loretta Wiseman, Deondre's mother, sat in her seat, beaming, an island of peace in the rocking stadium, wearing a replica of her son's jersey. The place was packed to capacity and the huge structure literally vibrated with noise and the pounding of feet. It was really not her scene – had it not been Deondre out there on the field, she would still be at church on a Sunday afternoon. She had come alone, although Deondre had offered to get her more tickets for her friends. Maybe next week, she thought. Most of her new friends were at church, and she hadn't gotten close enough to any of them until recently to ask if they wanted to go with her. There were a couple of nice ladies her age, though, who looked like they might like to have a little fun on occasion. And the playoffs <em>were<em> exciting. "Yes, I'll ask them next week," she said to herself.

Jarvis Trent drew back to pass, and the crowd rose to its feet with a roar as he let the ball fly. Loretta watched on tiptoes, held steady by the nice man next to her – he was Leshawn Wilkinson's uncle, and he watched over her in the rowdy crowd. The ball sailed through the air, a long bomb, right into Deondre's waiting hands. He'd shot away from his defenders and was wide open, down by the end zone. The ball came in a little high and he made a fabulous leaping catch, elevating an impossible distance off the ground, then danced in for an easy score. The crowd went wild, and Loretta clapped her hands and laughed aloud.

It was an easy win against an opponent who had been predicted to be troublesome. After the game, Loretta made her way through the walkways of exulting fans, counting how many of them wore Deondre's jersey. It never occurred to her that she would be mobbed by many of them if they knew who she was – but none of them did. She scurried along in happy, clueless anonymity out to her car.

As she reached it, she could see a note tucked in the windshield under the wiper, and she pulled it out and unfolded it, curiously. It was typed, and contained just one line: 'If your son talks, you will pay.'

In a flash her happy mood vanished, and she looked around, bewildered, as if expecting to see someone watching her. There were several fans heading for their cars, but none of them paid any attention to her. Her heart thumping, she opened her door with trembling hands, and got inside the car.

Safely inside, she locked the door and stared at the note for a moment, then swallowed, and shakily started the engine and headed for home.

* * *

><p>Donna Bainbridge sat stunned as the television in her hotel room went to commercial, wishing mightily that the game had been recorded.<p>

She had been flicking through the channels out of boredom and idle curiosity and had caught the very end of the football game, watching disinterestedly as the contest ended and the camera panned the Warriors' sideline, catching the team's jubilation at their first playoff win. She had been about to change the channel again when she stopped dead, staring. There – that man on the sideline, slapping one of the players on the back – he was the man who had visited the lab, and who had come again that last night with the other man to kill Stevenson – it was him; she was sure of it. She stared at the scene until the commercial started, and then sat there, reliving what she had just seen in her mind's eye, oblivious to the edgy twenty-somethings hawking corn chips on the screen. The man had been dressed in the team windbreaker – he worked for the Warriors – maybe a coach or advisor of some kind.

It took only a moment for the implications of that to sink in. She wasn't a big sports fan, but it would have been hard to be a resident of L.A. and not heard about the all the hype surrounding the team and the federal investigation into the players. She even knew about the lead agent, a man named Don Eppes, because he'd been named as the lead agent in the Stevenson case, too. She'd read and watched the news, drinking in everything she could about the man, wondering what kind of person he was. Would he listen to her story objectively, if she were to come to him? Or had he prejudged her, as the LAPD had seemed to?

But now, she had information that would link the two cases together. Not only the murder – but the reason for it. She remembered the unknown man coming to the lab on more than one occasion and leaving with boxes. There was now no doubt in her mind that Stevenson had been supplying him with vials of steroids combined with Camouflage – that would explain the players' enhanced performance, and the fact that testing failed to find any banned substances. But why would Stevenson jeopardize his life's work by participating in something illegal? Someone on the team had to be holding something over his head – either that or there was huge money involved. Maybe it was tied to the lab funding.

She shook her head. She just might have enough information to come in safely – but she needed one more thing – that man's name. Make that two. She needed a way to contact Don Eppes, directly. She had seen him, had heard him speak on television after the news had broken about the Warriors investigation. Even though his words were limited – after making a brief statement, he had waved off a cluster of clamoring reporters with a 'no comment,' – she was left with an impression of a rational, fair man who might listen to her story before he jumped to conclusions. And in any event, if she did come in, she wanted to talk to someone in charge – not get shuffled through the LAPD booking process by some underling who didn't understand the significance of her information.

She fired up her laptop, and searched. She found a team site that listed the names of several of the team staff, but there were no pictures attached to the list so she had no way of knowing whether her man was on the list of names or not. She found a central number for the L.A. FBI office but no direct line to Don Eppes, and no home phone number listed in the L.A. directory. After several hours, that was all she had come up with, so she finally gave up, shut the computer off and turned out the light, staring at the ceiling in the dark. She was going to have to make the leap, she knew, and contact the FBI, but she needed a lawyer first. She'd been looking for online for one and had several candidates – she just had to pick one. "Tomorrow," she told herself. Tomorrow, she'd pick up the phone and call one of the law firms, and meet with her lawyer. Then together, they'd call the FBI.

* * *

><p>End Chapter 12<p>

_Author's note: That was just a little tease of a whump – much more to come – for both brothers. _


	13. Chapter 13

Camouflage

Chapter 13

Deondre Wiseman sat on the edge of bed the next morning and stared at the crumpled piece of paper in his hand that he'd gotten from his mother the night before. The typed letters in the note were generic, impersonal, giving no clue as to who sent the message, but he knew full well where they had come from. Or did he? Sure, Trainer Frank was involved, but he was getting his orders from someone. Who? Mansell? Murciano? Someone else with an interest in the team? The betting industry was huge and mob-connected – someone outside the team itself could be providing Frank with Magic, in order to influence the games and bet on the outcome. He had to tread carefully; think before he acted. _If_ he acted. He could be putting his mother's life in danger if he did – and if he did anything, he would need to make sure she was safe, first. He stared at the note a moment more, then went and put it in his safe, on top of his syringes full of Magic.

He was down at the stadium early – they all were, for films. Monday they generally spent the mornings viewing the films from Sunday's game with the coaches, going over what went well and where they'd made mistakes, deciding on adjustments in timing, in routes. Afterward they were off to therapy with Trainer Frank and his staff, working out muscle kinks and minor injuries with massage, whirlpools, thermal therapy, and light exercise. At one point when Deondre was off in a corner with the stretch bands, Frank came up to him and slipped him a new prepaid phone with instructions to discard the other one, and told him they were all getting new ones, just to be safe. Deondre met Frank's gaze levelly; he was oddly calm inside – a contrast to Friday. Then, he'd felt nervous and guilty when he'd faced the trainer, but the note had changed all that. Now, he was cold, clear-headed, like he was when he was on the field, when he put aside all distractions and focused on the game.

He watched Frank walk away and glance surreptitiously around the room, and then sidle up to Joey Cancetta. Frank said a few words to him, and a moment later, a small phone identical to Deondre's was lying by Joey's weight machine. Deondre watched impassively, his eyes on the back of Trainer Frank's head as the man moved about the room. Inside, Deondre was ice. Cold, no distractions. Just like Sundays.

Game on.

* * *

><p>Rocky Dellarocco unlocked the door to Deondre Wiseman's apartment. As soon as Wiseman had showed up at practice and all the players had left the locker rooms to go watch films, Rocky had gone into Wiseman's locker, lifted his keys, ran to the local hardware store and had copies made. Then he hurried back and put the original set back in Wiseman's locker, and headed for his apartment. Rocky was wearing a multi-purpose jumpsuit that Frank had given him – a green one-piece garment that provided instant camouflage. He could be a janitor, a plumber, an electrician – the casual observer would dismiss him with a glance.<p>

It took only a minute to put the bug in Deondre's apartment phone, and Rocky took a quick look around. He found the safe in the bedroom but didn't bother with it; it was a good one with a tough-to-crack lock, and he didn't have any reason to look inside anyway. Then he was out the door. He had plenty of time as far as Wiseman was concerned – Deondre would be at the stadium most of the day – but Rocky had other things to do. He glanced at his watch as he strode toward his car – nine a.m. He had to meet up with Murciano – they had a phone call to make.

He met him at an empty parking lot on the east side, and got into the passenger side of Murciano's car. He wouldn't be on the prepaid cell phone long enough for a trace on the location, but it never hurt to be careful. If something happened and the call was traced somehow, when they went to the location, it would be a nondescript empty lot, a dead end.

Murciano looked at him. He had dictated what to say and was just there to listen in. Rocky was making the actual call – they needed a voice that wouldn't be recognized. "You remember what to say?" Murciano asked.

"I remember," said Rocky, and he pulled the phone from his jumpsuit pocket.

* * *

><p>Don Eppes swigged the last of his coffee from his mug and grimaced; it was cold, and more bitter than usual. He glanced at his watch – he and his team were meeting with A.D. Merrick in a few minutes to go over the details of the case so far. He gathered up his files – he could see his team doing the same.<p>

His cell phone rang just as Megan was passing his desk. "Heading up?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said, "tell Merrick I'll be right there – I'm gonna get this."

He frowned at the number in the display as Colby and David hurried past him – it was unfamiliar, and had been put through by the receptionist at the front desk. He hit the answer button and spoke, purposely not giving his name, since he didn't know the caller. "Hello."

The voice on the other end was male, and unfamiliar, as well. "_Don Eppes?_"

"Speaking. Who is this?"

"_How was your coffee this morning?"_

Don's frown deepened. "Fine. Who is this?"

"_The poison works slowly – it takes two or three weeks to kill. You have enough time to do what I'm asking_."

Don felt his heart contract. He looked at the empty coffee mug, speechless.

"_Do what I ask; and I will get you the antidote. Find Donna Bainbridge, and give me her location. I will call back at 3:00 to check with you. Tell no one about this, or the deal is off – no antidote_."

Don heard a click. "Wait," he said, but there was no answer, and he knew that the call had been disconnected. He stared at the phone, and then at his coffee mug. Then he picked up the mug and his files, and headed for the elevator.

He felt oddly emotionless, detached, as he opened the door to the conference room. Merrick and his team looked at him, and he closed the door and faced them. "I've got a problem," he said.

* * *

><p>"Perfect," said Murciano. "We give him some time to stew over it, and then call him later."<p>

"Do you think he knows where she is?" asked Rocky.

"Maybe not. In fact, probably not – but it will give him some more incentive to find her."

"What if he says he won't cooperate?"

"He will," said Murciano, smugly. "Our next call will ratchet up the pressure. Write this down – this is what you'll say if he refuses to cooperate when you call him back this afternoon."

He handed Rocky a tablet and a pen, and began to dictate.

* * *

><p>Jack Worth was furious. The film session that morning had gone badly and the defensive coach had lit into him, like Jack knew he would. There was something wrong with his knee - the professor had done more damage to it than Jack had wanted to admit, and he had gone into the game Sunday at less than his best. The fact was, he couldn't admit to his coach the reason for the injury – only Reese and Trainer Frank knew how it had happened. His official story was that he tweaked it during practice.<p>

Knees and legs in general were critical for a lineman – more important than size, weight, or upper body strength. The legs gave a lineman the push he needed off the line – and that split second after the ball was snapped meant everything. You had to come up hard and fast, and get to the gap before your opponent closed it off. With a bum knee, he hadn't been as fast off the line, and so hadn't been nearly as effective. Only one sack, compared to his usual average of three. And today, he was limping. He was now sitting there waiting for the team doctor, instead of working out like he should.

And to top it off, that little geek had ruined a custom pair of Nikes.

He sat there, fuming, watching Trainer Frank furtively slip new cell phones to his teammates. Worth already had his. Frank had been furious with him and Reese the other night, and had actually threatened them with not renewing their contracts when he found them in the bar. That, Worth knew, would be a big setback to his career. Instead of signing a lucrative long-term contract with the Warriors next year, he'd be out. Oh, with his performance this year, he'd get picked up by another team in a heartbeat, but leaving the Warriors meant no more access to Magic. He'd lose his edge.

The threat had been interesting in itself, however, as he thought about the incident. None of the six players knew who had been giving Frank the Magic to distribute. Worth had always thought it was someone from the outside – probably from the betting world. But someone from outside wouldn't be able to call shots on his contract, and Trainer Frank didn't have the clout to do that himself. Only team management could do that – Coach Rubacek, or Mansell or the owner, Murciano. So the threat about the contracts had to be coming from one of them, which meant that one or maybe all of them were behind the distribution of Magic.

It didn't make much difference, he thought to himself. As long as he could get his supply, he didn't care where it came from. But the thought that it might be coming from the top was a little unsettling. It was understandable that it was all being kept quiet if it was coming from the betting world – that alone would have made it illegal. But if betting wasn't involved and it was simply coming from team management, why was it so hush-hush? If it was a legal substance, why wasn't everyone getting it? How had management picked the six who were now receiving it? There had to be some reason for limiting it to six.

And then the thought hit him. They were limiting who got it because they weren't entirely sure how it would work – they wanted to use it on a trial group first. Basically, the six of them were guinea pigs.

"That's stupid," he told himself. None of them were suffering any ill effects – in fact they were in the best physical shape of their careers. Frank had mentioned that supply was tight – that had to be the reason – whoever was making it must have been able to only consistently provide enough for six players. He should feel fortunate that he'd been one of the ones to be picked.

He tried hard to believe that – that he was one of the fortunate ones – tried to force the doubts out of his head. The uneasiness was there to stay, however, squatting in his gut like a nasty little creature, gnawing at his insides.

Then his cell phone buzzed – not his new one – his old one. It was a text message from Deondre. '_Don't throw away your old phone_,' it read. '_The six of us need to meet tonight, at Reese's house. Don't tell Frank. Don't text or talk about the meeting on the new phones._'

Worth looked up, and the other players had their phones in their hands. Six glances crossed the room, fleeting, but filled with comprehension. Then they all looked away, pocketed their old phones, and went back to what they were doing.

* * *

><p>"The lab didn't find anything," said Colby, as he strode into Merrick's office just after noon. "They said there wasn't much in your mug to test, just some residue, but nothing came up on their tests except coffee. They also tested what was left in the pots – again, nothing but coffee."<p>

He sat at the conference table in Merrick's office, and David pushed a pizza box toward him, and Colby snagged a slice. The rest of them except for Don had been there all morning, plowing through video of the FBI office area, and particularly the coffee area and Don's desk. The cameras had been installed a few months before over a flap that some information had been leaking out of the office. They had found later that the leak wasn't in their office – but the cameras had stayed, and had just come in handy. Don shook his head at the proffered pizza which they had ordered in for lunch, but in spite of the good news, the last thing he wanted was food.

"There's nothing in the video either," said Megan. "We've watched footage of the office since Don rinsed out his cup yesterday afternoon, and all through last night, all the way back through two weeks ago, well before we started the Warriors case. The call has be connected to that case or the Stevenson murder because they mentioned Donna Bainbridge, so there is no sense going back any further. No strangers were in the offices; no one snuck in last night, or any of those nights. No one came near Don's coffee cup or his desk for that matter, and it doesn't look like anyone put anything extra in the coffee pots – and it was just our people handling the pots – no one else." She looked Don. "Do you ever get coffee anywhere else but the office?"

He shook his head. "I head over the walkway and go across the street sometimes, but not recently. Not for a month now."

Relief was beginning to dawn in their faces, replacing the concern and tension. For Don, however, the tension was starting to be replaced by anger. Merrick had sent him immediately to the hospital that morning for blood work and a tox screen, which had come up negative, and now the office security video was the clincher. Don's initial thought was that it would have been tough for someone to gain access to the office and tamper with his mug, and he was right.

"It's a bluff," he said tersely.

Merrick nodded. "It must be. Even the way they phrased it – they insinuated they delivered the toxin by asking about your coffee, but they didn't come right out and say that's how they did it. They knew they had to sell it – to make it sound like they knew more than they did to get you to believe it – so they took a guess, figured that most people drink coffee in the morning."

David was on his laptop, and he spoke up. "The information just came back on the cell phone number. It was a prepaid phone. I'm afraid that's a dead end."

"I guess we don't have a lot to go on," said Colby.

"We have something, though," said Don. "We know they're lying, and they don't know that we know that. They also don't know that I've told anyone else. When they call back at 3:00, I'm going to push back hard, call their bluff and see what they do. Maybe I can fluster them and get them off track, get them to stay on the line long enough for a trace. And we'll record the call this time and see if we can run the caller through voice recognition. We have some recordings from the team interviews – we'll see if we can come up with a match – although I have to say, I didn't recognize the voice. It didn't sound like Murciano."

"So, your assessment is still that you think Murciano is involved?" asked Merrick.

Don nodded. "Yes – but we have no hard evidence to support that theory. It's just a gut feel at this point. We need to find Dr. Bainbridge to hopefully confirm a connection to him. Barring that, the only other option we have is trying to get one of those six players to talk, and they may know nothing about the lab, even if they did."

"Okay," said Merrick. "Let's finish lunch, and if you have other things to do, go get them done. Don, be back in here at two to set up the trace on your phone – I have the tech coming in here. The rest of you; be back at 2:30 – we need to be set up and ready to listen in case they call early."

The intervening time dragged; it wasn't enough time to dig into the next big task, and Don had a hard time keeping his mind off the upcoming call. The shock at being told he'd been poisoned had worn off, and in its place was cold anger. He couldn't wait to get back on that line and fire the next volley in the psychological war – and this time, he'd have the advantage.

He was back early and got his cell phone set up with the technician, who remained in the room to monitor the recording equipment and run the trace. His team arrived, and Colby gave them an update on LAPD's BOLO on Bainbridge – still no trace of her. They fell silent as three o'clock approached, and at one minute after the hour, the cell phone rang.

The technician hit the button for the trace-and-record, and nodded at Don, and Don hit answer. The phone was also routed through a speaker so the group could hear the conversation, and it was lying on the desk in front of Don. He leaned toward it and spoke into it.

"Hello."

"_Don Eppes?" _It was the same voice as the one on the call that morning.

"Speaking."

"_As I promised, I'm calling back to see how you progressed today. Do you have a location on Bainbridge_?"

"No." Don kept his responses as short and unrevealing as possible, trying to draw out the conversation.

There was a brief hesitation, then the voice said coldly. "_That is not acceptable. When will you be able to give me an answer?_"

"Never," said Don firmly. "You're bluffing. You didn't poison me, so you have nothing to negotiate with." To himself, he thought, '_east coast_.' The voice had an east coast accent – New York, maybe, or New Jersey.

"_You're right_." The voice came back sounding upbeat, still cold, but filled with confidence – almost flippant. "_I didn't poison you. I never said I did – I just asked you how your coffee was, remember?"_

Don frowned, confused, and looked at his team and then at the technician, who made a rolling motion with his hand, to indicate he still needed more time. Don turned back toward the phone. "I don't understand."

"_I didn't poison __you_," the voice said. "_Your brother, however, is another story_."

He paused, and Don's heart contracted, painfully. He could see the shock and dismay on the faces of the others in the room – an expression that was surely mirrored on his own. He didn't want to believe the man, but Charlie_ had_ been sick… It took an effort to get the words out, but he tried to sound skeptical. "I don't believe you. You're lying."

The man on the other end sounded almost cheerful. "_Think so? I'm sure he isn't feeling too well lately – why don't you ask him? And while you're at it, ask him about the cup of tea that he had in lecture hall D, and the sweet little note his friend left with it. Amita, is it? Oh, and by the way, that was about a week ago. One week down already – I'd guess that he only has about a week left. You should know, too, that the poison won't show up on a blood test, so if he gets a test done and it's clean, it doesn't mean anything. The poison is still in his system. You'd better get moving. I'll call back tomorrow at this time, and I expect you'll have an answer for me. Oh, and one more thing – Donna Bainbridge is the only one who can provide the antidote – so if you want to save your brother, you have to find her. You'll still need me even when you do, because I will need to tell her exactly what was put in his tea – so don't even think of trying any tricks. Telling me where she is will be your brother's only hope. Otherwise, he's facing a slow and painful death."_

The call disconnected, and the tech, who was glued to his computer screen and looking slightly shocked, immediately said, "Got it. It's a parking lot on the east side. I've got GPS coordinates."

There was a flurry of activity as Don's team went for their phones, calling LAPD and any other agencies possibly in that area, trying to get them to the caller's location. The noise and bustle went nearly unnoticed by Don, however, who sat unmoving, his eyes still on his cell phone.

"My God," he whispered. "Charlie."

* * *

><p>End, Chapter 13<p>

_Author's note: Oh, yes, Charlie. But this doesn't mean that Don won't get his share of whump as well, rest assured…_


	14. Chapter 14

Camouflage

_Author's note: Thank you all for your comments and notes - I so enjoy reading them._

Chapter 14

There was an LAPD squad car at the site of the phone call in ten minutes – but the officers were undoubtedly ten minutes too late. They reported in that the parking lot was empty.

In the meantime, Don called Charlie's cell phone, and got no response. He tried his office and got the same. Finally, he tried the house. His father answered.

"Dad," Don said, and hesitated a split second. He couldn't give this information over the phone. "Do you know where Charlie is?"

"Yes," said Alan cheerfully, "he's here. He and Amita and Larry are in the dining room, working on a presentation for tomorrow – they wanted some place they could work without distractions, so they came here."

"Okay, good," said Don, trying to keep his voice steady. "Keep them there. I'm coming out with some of my team – we need to meet with them."

They got to the Craftsman at around four. Don had Megan, Colby and David come with him – partly for moral support, but mostly because there was questioning to be done, and he didn't trust his own head right now. His gut was in a knot; his thought processes clouded by dread. He couldn't afford to miss a critical detail.

He'd been in a hurry to get there, but as soon as he got inside, Don's feet seemed suddenly leaden. Charlie, Amita and Larry looked up from their work and Alan came out from the kitchen as Don moved toward the dining room, with the other agents trailing behind him. Charlie was smiling apologetically, and all Don could think of was that he was about to wipe that smile off his younger brother's face.

"Hey Don," said Charlie; he sounded guilty and a little flustered. "I'm sorry – I haven't gotten that analysis done yet on Donna Bainbridge's most likely routes. I just got the rest of the traffic pattern data an hour ago. I'll run it just as soon as I'm done here."

Don had reached the table, and he looked across it at him and said, "Charlie, I need to talk to you."

Alan, Amita and Larry took in the serious expressions on the faces of the agents, and Amita said hastily, "We'll just head out to the kitchen for a minute."

"Come get some iced tea -," Alan began, motioning to Amita and Larry, but Don cut him off, and raised a hand.

"No – Dad, Amita, Larry – I need you to hear this." Charlie was gazing at him, puzzled, and Don took a breath. "Charlie, we think you may have been intentionally poisoned."

His father made a small sound, and Amita gasped. Charlie just stared back, his lips parted, motionless.

Larry shook his head, his face contorted with bewilderment. "Why do you think this?" His voice sounded strained, thick.

"Someone called me today at work from a prepaid cell phone – an anonymous call. At first I thought they meant me when they said they'd poisoned someone, but when I talked to them the second time, they said it was you. They want me to give them Donna Bainbridge's location – and in exchange, they'll give us the antidote."

Charlie shook his head. "That's crazy," he said, but Don could hear a hint of trepidation in his voice.

Alan sank into a chair. "Antidote? This is reversible?" He didn't question the threat, which was ominous in itself; Don was sure that Charlie's recent illness had convinced him already that this was no hoax.

"It sounds like it – but it sounds like only Bainbridge knows how to formulate it."

Charlie cleared his throat and straightened in his chair, speaking with a little more force. "That's ridiculous – it's got to be a scam to get you to give up Bainbridge."

"We thought so too, at first," said Don. "But they mentioned some things… do you remember drinking tea last week?"

"I drank tea several times," said Charlie, his voice laced with skepticism. "It seemed like it settled my stomach. But I got it from the campus coffee shop. The last time I checked, they weren't offering poison along with the sugar packets."

Megan spoke up, gently. "They mentioned lecture hall D about a week ago, and a note from Amita. Does that mean anything?"

Amita gasped again, covered her mouth with her hand, and looked at Charlie with fearful eyes. "Oh, Charlie – I got you that cup of tea one day. I left it in the lecture hall for you with the note, remember?"

Charlie swallowed, turning suddenly paler. "Yes."

Megan's brow furrowed. "So you left the tea unattended for a while?"

Amita nodded, tearfully. "Oh, my God," she whispered, as the ramifications of that sank in.

Don looked at Charlie. "Do you remember drinking that tea? Do remember how much you drank?"

"Yes." Charlie's response was so low, Don could barely hear him. "I drank most of it."

Don caught a glimpse of his father's anguished face, and his throat had seemed to close. David stepped in, asking, "Do either of you remember seeing anyone in the lecture hall? Or outside it? Anyone who didn't belong?" Amita shook her head, still speechless.

"No, it was empty when I got there," said Charlie. He looked scared now, and that made him somehow look younger. He suddenly seemed smaller, vulnerable. A helpless target – he shouldn't be in this position, thought Don, desperately.

Charlie suddenly rose without warning, grabbed his cell phone, and headed for the kitchen. They watched him go, but no one moved.

Colby was frowning at Amita. "How would anyone know you were getting tea for him? Did you talk about it ahead of time?"

"Yes," Amita faltered, looking at Larry as if for help. "We talked about it, but it was just the three of us, in Charlie's office. It was the day after Charlie was hurt, and he wasn't getting around too well. I was going toward the lecture hall, and I offered to pick up some tea up for him on the way and drop it off."

Larry was standing there with his eyes closed, as if meditating, and he suddenly opened them and looked at Amita. "The janitor – outside the door – remember?"

Her eyes widened and she looked back at the agents, her voice rising. "Yes – there was a man right outside the door, sweeping. The door was open – he might have overheard us talking. I almost ran into him on the way out."

Don found his voice. "Do you remember what he looked like?"

Her face fell, and she looked at Larry, who shook his head. "Not really," she said, her voice faltering. "I didn't really look at his face – I was in a hurry. He was Caucasian, and tall, maybe six feet tall, and was wearing a jumpsuit – I think it was green. Or maybe gray. I'm not even sure what color his hair was."

Charlie suddenly burst back through the kitchen door. Don noticed uneasily that he was breathing more heavily than he should have been from the brief exertion, and he moved stiffly, as if in pain. The T-shirt he was wearing hung on his thin frame, and his dark eyes glittered in his pale face. "I just called the hospital – I had blood work done Friday night after I passed out, remember? They did a tox screen as part of it – there was a small amount of alcohol because of the beer I had at dinner, but nothing else. It was clean. This has got to be a lie." He caught his breath and waved the cell phone triumphantly, and Don swallowed. He hated to destroy Charlie's hope, but he knew he needed to talk him into going to the hospital.

"Charlie," he said gently. "They told us that whatever it is, it wouldn't show up on a blood test. I think we need to go back and talk to the doctors."

Charlie, still panting, stared at him for a long moment, then shook his head and spoke firmly as he headed for the table. "No. I'm sorry, Don, I don't believe this. I will do what I can to help you find Donna Bainbridge – I'll start work on it tonight, but I have got to finish getting ready for that grant commission visit tomorrow. I don't have time for hollow threats." He sat, and looked up at Amita and Larry, who were still standing. "Now where were we?"

* * *

><p>The six players were all at Reese's house by six. They met out back by the pool as usual, but they didn't park their cars in front. Per Deondre's request, most of them parked a block or two away and walked, so if anyone cruised by the house – either Frank or the feds, it wouldn't be obvious that they were there. They also left their new phones at home – again, in accordance with a text from Deondre that came through on their old burners. Reese had beer, and everyone took one, but no one was very intent on drinking. There was tension in the air, and mistrust on everyone's face.<p>

"So why are we all here, drinking my beer?" said Reese, looking at Deondre.

"I think we need to touch base and talk without Frank around," said Deondre. "A couple of things happened in the last few days. I have to admit, I've been having my doubts about this Magic stuff."

"You aren't thinking of talking to the feds, are you?" asked Freddie Muhala, belligerently.

Joey Cancetta glanced at Jack Worth. He would have bet a year's pay that Worth would be going ballistic on Deondre right now, too, but Worth was strangely silent.

Deondre said quietly. "I don't know. It's eating at me. I wouldn't do anything without talking to all of you first, and if I did talk, I'd tell 'em it was just me that was doing the stuff. I wouldn't turn you all in. I may not talk at all – I don't want to bring down sanctions on the team, and let the team and the fans down. I mostly called you here to warn you."

Leshawn Wilkinson's smooth dark face creased in a frown. "Warn us? Of what?"

"I think Frank suspects somehow that I'm havin' doubts." His glance at Joey Cancetta was fleeting, but it made Joey flush. Deondre continued. "He pulled me aside the other day and told me I'd better not be thinking about talking to the feds – he threatened me. When my mama went out to her car after the game yesterday, there was a note on her windshield that said, "_If your boy talks, you will pay."_

There was silence for a moment, and then Wilkinson said, "That's bullshit, man. They better not threaten our families."

"That was bad enough," Deondre agreed. "But then today, there were the new phones." He looked around at them. "Didn't any of you think that was strange?"

They all looked at each other. Deondre continued. "I got to thinking how strange it was – our old phones were fine, so I took the back off my new one. I ain't no electronics expert, but there was something funny looking in it. So I opened up the old one, which is the identical brand, and that funny looking thing was not there. I think they bugged our new phones. That's why I sent you messages on your old ones, tellin' you not to use the new ones."

Now Muhala was looking indignant. "Bugged our phones? What the hell!"

"I don't know what's going on, or who's behind getting us this Magic stuff, beside Frank," said Deondre. "It could be the mob, or someone. We all need to be careful."

Worth finally spoke. "I don't think it's the mob." He looked at Reese and said, "I'm gonna tell 'em what went down the other night." Reese made a face and shook his head, but Worth went on. He told them about the attack on the Eppes brothers in the parking lot, and everyone's mouths dropped. Now, telling the story out loud in the daylight, it seemed pretty foolish to Worth too, but he told them the details, including Frank finding them in the bar afterward.

"So he says to us, me and Reese, we better behave, because our contract is coming up at the end of the year, and they'll can our asses, and we can go find a job with another team." Worth paused for dramatic effect.

"So?" said Muhala. "I'd can your asses too, after that, you dumb shits."

Reese was out of his chair at that, heading for Muhala, but Worth caught his arm. "Settle down," he said, and Reese sat back down, with a glare at Freddie. Worth shook his head. "Don't any of you see what I'm getting at? _Frank_ can't get rid of us – he's not high enough to have anything to do with the contracts. Neither does the mob. There are only three people who have that kind of influence on whether we get signed again or not, and that's Coach Ruby, Mansell, and Murciano. Frank couldn't make that statement without knowin' they would back him up."

"You're right," said Joey, slowly. "You're right – at least one of them must be in it with Frank."

Worth nodded. "And then I'm sittin' there thinkin' as I'm waiting for the damn doctor today, why would they only give the stuff to six of us? Especially if it's a legal supplement, like Frank says, and it's comin' from the guys at the top. And now, with this investigation, it's all hush-hush. And we know it doesn't come up on the tests, so why not give to everyone? It made me wonder – are we some kind of guinea pigs? Are they testin' that shit out on us? How do we know it's safe – other than what Frank says – and after hearin' this shit about threatening Deondre's mama, I'm not thinkin' that Frank has our best interests at heart."

Deondre grinned at him. "You're pretty smart, for a big dumb lineman."

Worth flashed a broken-toothed grin back at him. "Damn straight."

Joey looked at Deondre. "I'm the one who told Frank you were having doubts – I'm sorry, man. I just wanted us to stay together – we're right on the edge of going all the way. I never thought that he'd threaten you." He looked around at the rest of them. "This changes things. I mean, maybe we decide to go on the way we have been – keep playing and not say anything, but we know we can't trust Frank anymore. And I'm not sure I want to shoot up with some crap when I don't know what's in it, anymore, either."

"So what do we do now?" asked Leshawn.

"We got to stick together," said Deondre. "If any of us decides it's time to talk to the feds, he should tell the rest of us first. Some other people might want the option of coming in, too, at the same time. We can talk with each other on the old burners, and just use the new ones when we talk with Frank. I don't expect everyone to make a decision overnight on whether we should come clean – we should all go home and think about it. But you need to be careful and watch your back. I know in the meantime, after hearing what Worthy had to say, I'm not takin' any more Magic."

"Me neither," said Muhala, and the others nodded.

Leshawn raised his beer to them, with a grin. "Shit, we don't need it. We're magic enough." He clapped his hands and convulsed in laughter at his own statement, and the others laughed too, and raised their beers in return.

* * *

><p>Don sat silently on the old sofa in the garage, watching Charlie pace back and forth between his laptop on the table and one of the several chalkboards he kept in the garage. It was after eight, and the agents and Larry and Amita had left an hour ago. Amita had gone tearfully, still choked up by the fact that she had unwittingly provided the vehicle for the poison. Colby, David and Megan had gone also – not home, but back to work, checking with Cal Sci for surveillance camera footage to see if they could spot the mystery janitor, and sifting through LAPD reports concerning the search for Donna Bainbridge.<p>

Charlie was breathing hard again, a light sheen of sweat on his face, and he murmured to himself as he worked, completely lost in his calculations. His gray T-shirt was white with chalk dust on the left side; Charlie kept unconsciously clutching that side as he moved; it was undoubtedly hurting him, but aside from that gesture, he seemed oblivious to the pain – oblivious to everything but his equations. It was reminiscent of the other times he'd gone into a driven, obsessive mode when under stress, to the point of acting irrationally, and Don's heart sank. He was watching his brother die, and lose his mind at the same time.

Charlie spoke unexpectedly, and Don came out of his thoughts to find him looking at him, not with that far-away look he'd had when he'd retreated before, but with eyes that connected – that actually _saw_ him. "What?" stammered Don.

"I said, she went north, not east," said Charlie. "There was a tie-up on the 210 headed east toward San Bernardino that morning. She would probably have taken the highway north instead of risking getting stuck in traffic." His voice was soft and husky, stretched thin by pain. "I need to do another analysis now – there's another model I can use to determine how far she might have gone. She probably didn't want to go too far while she thought about what to do next – yet she needed to feel that she'd gone far enough to be safe. I can run that, and bounce it off the most likely places that she might be staying." His shoulders sagged a little. "I can tell you right now, it's probably going to be a pretty big list of places, because we don't have a lot go on. I won't be able to weed out very much without more data. I'll have to work on it tomorrow; I'm afraid I can't go anymore tonight."

Don shook his head. "Charlie, I don't expect you to work on it. You should be in the hospital."

Charlie closed his laptop and put it under his arm, heading for the garage door, and Don rose from the sofa and fell into step beside him. Charlie shook his head as he went. "I still don't believe it. They're just trying to get you to give up Bainbridge, or at the very least, trying to distract us." He was trying to sound calm and matter of fact, but Don could hear the uncertainty in his voice.

He put a hand on Charlie's shoulder, gently, and Charlie stopped and looked up at him. "Charlie, I wouldn't tell you something like this if I didn't think it was true. You should really get in to see a doctor."

Charlie swallowed and looked away, and Don could see the truth in his eyes. Charlie had been denying it all evening, but he knew...

He started to walk again, and said, "I'll think about it. I have to get through tomorrow first."

Even as he spoke, Don could see him, hunched in pain, taking short little puffs of air as if he was short of breath as they went into the house and through the kitchen. At the foot of the stairs, he turned and looked at Don, his dark eyes still filled with intensity, despite his obvious fatigue. "I know you'll find her," he said. His voice sounded weak, but his expression radiated solid confidence and trust. He gave Don a small smile, then made his way slowly up the stairs.

Don stood, watching him helplessly, and remained there a long moment after Charlie had disappeared from sight, before he finally went into the living room and sat down with his father. Alan was reading the paper, or trying to – Don noticed that he was only on the second page, and didn't seem to be moving on. The paper trembled, and Alan set it down. "Is he still out in the garage?"

Don shook his head. "He went up to bed."

"What do you know about this Bainbridge woman?"

"Not enough," said Don, heavily. "We think she may actually be innocent, and we were hoping she'd come in on her own, but she hasn't yet."

Alan kept his gaze on Don's face. "What are the chances -," he stopped, tried again. "How close are you to finding her?"

Don hesitated, trying to frame his response. He couldn't tell his father that they had no idea – that they were no closer to finding her than they'd been when they started. His father apparently read the answer in his face and with a shaky sigh, rose from his chair. "I'm going up to see if he needs anything."

He didn't come down again, and after an hour, Don went upstairs to check on them. He found his father sitting in Charlie's room in the dark, and Charlie asleep. Alan had pulled the chair from Charlie's desk over to the bedside and sat with his head bowed, as if asleep, himself – or in prayer.

Don went back downstairs again, and picked up his SUV keys from the table, planning to head home. Then he stopped, keys dangling in mid-air, and set them down, and looked around the quiet house – his boyhood home. He stood there, still, for a moment, then went and locked the doors, turned out the lights, and went upstairs to his old room. He should be there with them, in the old house. It might be the last night the three of them spent together under its roof.

* * *

><p>Outside, a single set of eyes regarded the Craftsman home, watching the lights go out, one by one. Rocky Dellarocco had taken the precaution of parking up the block and walking down to the house, standing in a dark spot near a neighbor's shrubs. He had looked for Eppes' SUV earlier that evening at his apartment, and when he didn't see it there, he had driven up to Pasadena, where his brother lived. He had only been there about fifteen minutes when the lights in the house began to go out. He waited a moment to make sure that no one was coming out, and then he headed for Eppes' SUV.<p>

He peered in the driver's side window and checked the exact position of the seat and then got what he needed out of his backpack, got on his back and wiggled underneath. It was an easy matter to drill a hole upward under the seat, insert the little microphone through the hole, and secure the wires that fed through the hole in place with fast-curing epoxy. The rest of the unit, including the battery pack, was small and enclosed in a sealed case and was easy to bolt to the carriage underneath. It took only about five minutes to bug the vehicle, and Rocky slid back out and stood, looking around. The street was still dark and empty, and he shoved the drill in his backpack, hoisted the pack on his shoulder, and walked quickly back to his car.

The bug that he'd just installed, the bug he'd put in the phone in Deondre's apartment, and the bugs in the prepaid cell phones that Frank had handed out to the players all were tied into the same monitoring system, which was already set up in Murciano's office at the stadium. The tough part would be monitoring the system around the clock with just the three of them – but at this point, it was a necessary precaution, in case Don Eppes decided to double-cross them and bring in Donna Bainbridge without telling them, or in case any of the players decided to defect. They would try to listen in as much as they could, real time, but the equipment was also set to record.

He had to admit, as he quietly pulled out of his parking place and wound his way through the dark streets, that things were getting dicey. Murciano had been smart to dose the younger Eppes as a precaution. Now Murciano had some leverage – and if it had turned out that he hadn't needed that leverage, he would have just kept quiet. The young professor would have died a mysterious death, and no one would have known why, because the stuff that killed him was undetectable. Of course Murciano didn't foresee that Stevenson would stand up against him and need to be killed, or that Donna Bainbridge would vanish with the all-important research, so having Frank poison the professor had turned out to be invaluable. Now, they needed to get their hands on Bainbridge to be safe – Murciano wanted the research material, to be sure, but even more importantly they needed Bainbridge dead, if for no other reason than she could identify Frank from his previous trips to the lab. Of course, her death would mean the professor's as well, but as long as Bainbridge was gone, there would be nothing the feds could do to pin any of it on Murciano.

Of course, Rocky had an interest in finding her himself. Something had spooked her and made her run that night – and he and Frank had speculated that it was possible she might have witnessed the murder – that she might have seen them in the lab. And since Rocky himself had pulled the trigger, he had a personal issue with the woman – she might be able to identify him as the killer. He was going to take care of her, one way or another.

* * *

><p>Charlie lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Although the room was dark and Charlie couldn't see him well, he was very aware of his father's presence at his side. It was comforting – his father had been an unwavering source of support for both him and Don, growing up. When they were younger, Alan been a little closer to Don, Charlie suspected, and Charlie a little closer to their mother, who was probably the only person on the planet who had truly understood him – who had some clue as to how his mind worked, including his strengths and weaknesses. Since her death, however, he and his father had become closer – they were roommates in addition to being father and son, and he keenly appreciated his father's presence, especially tonight.<p>

In spite of his own assertions that the poisoning threat was a hoax, deep inside, he knew. Poison would explain a lot – the fact that he was progressively feeling worse instead of better, his odd collection of symptoms: headache, nausea, abdominal pain – to which he recently had added weakness and shortness of breath. That could be due to the fact that he was subsisting on next to nothing – he could only eat a bite or two of bland food at a time, if he wanted to keep it down. He'd drastically dropped weight as a result, which could certainly contribute to weakness and shortness of breath. It could still be flu, he told himself, but in his heart, he knew.

And because he knew, he also realized that he should probably be in the hospital. He suspected, though, that if they didn't find Donna Bainbridge in time and he went in to UCLA Medical Center, he was probably not coming out again – so he was trying to prolong admittance as long as possible. Truthfully, he was concerned that he would not be able to make it through the next day on campus – a visit by the grant commission, with its presentations and dinner and the socializing with the grant committee members – was exhausting when a person was healthy. It would probably be his last day there, though, so he was determined to get through it – partly because he didn't want to let down a school that he had come to love, and partly simply because once he entered the hospital, there was a good chance it would all be over.

He was still hopeful, but he couldn't completely squelch fear and the sense of loss – the loss of a future, one that was bright with possibility. He knew that in spite of his achievements, he'd barely scratched the surface in a promising career in mathematics – maybe a career that might have produced something really significant, perhaps even on a global basis. On a personal level, he was way behind the norm – he'd only had one significant relationship with a woman, a woman named Susan Berry whom he'd met when he studied in England. He only had to think of Amita Ramanujan and of what might have been between them, or to look at his brother, who'd had no shortage of women in his life, to realize what he was missing there. And what about his brother, for that matter? A chance to create a solid relationship with him would never materialize now – not that he'd been that successful in that arena, to date, but he had hoped to fix that. When it came to life outside of academia, he hadn't even started to live. Hell, he didn't even have his driver's license yet, had never owned a car. That had been something else he'd put off during his years at school. He'd only recently gotten his learner's permit – for the second time, since the first one had been taken away because he'd been caught speeding. The fact that he'd probably never even know the simple joy of driving and owning his own car was trivial, but somehow the triviality of it underscored the more important items – the less-than-satisfactory social aspects of his life, the abrupt end to a fledging career, the relationships put on hold – all seemed to be glaring failures now.

It all was nearly unbearable to think about, so he tried not to – and oddly enough, he was able to put it out of his mind; he was calmer than he might have suspected, and he knew why. In the back of his mind was the belief that Don would come through for him – he always had – and he would again, somehow; Charlie was sure of it. Don had chased away bullies before, and this would be no exception. His brother would find Donna Bainbridge. The thought was comforting, but still he tried to stay awake; to savor being with his father, to get the most out of the hours he might have left. He didn't want to waste them in sleep, but he was so tired...

End Chapter 14


	15. Chapter 15

Camouflage

Chapter 15

Don ran both hands over his face wearily as he faced his staff across the conference room table the next morning. Inside, he could feel desperation mounting. "So Cal Sci had nothing?"

David shook his head, solemnly. "They have surveillance cameras throughout campus, but they tend to be concentrated in the labs, or wherever there is expensive equipment. The parking lots have them, but there is parking on the streets around campus, so if our janitor was sharp enough to notice the cameras, he could have avoided them by not parking in the lots. There are certain pathways across campus that he could have traveled to get to the building where Charlie's office is – and to lecture hall D in the Reyes building – without coming in view of a camera. We have a lot of footage and we're looking through it, but we checked the obvious areas – like the parking lots – already. It's just like the stadium – the cameras are never where you need them. We have nothing so far."

They looked as tired as Don felt – they'd been up most of the night combing through footage – and their faces were grim. Rumpled clothes testified to the all-night session – even if Don hadn't recognized the apparel from the day before.

"I've been going through the false BOLO sightings again," said Megan. "LAPD checked them all out, and I haven't found any reason to think they missed anything so far. I've got a few more to go." She tilted her head. "How's Charlie doing?"

Don sighed. "In denial – either that; or he has it in his head that he's going to get through his presentations today before he deals with this. He's got a long day ahead of him – presentations and a dinner for the grant commission. I'm going over there later to pry him away as soon as he'll let me. He did agree to stop in at the hospital again for more blood tests – they're going to do a more in-depth tox screen than they gave him the other night. My dad took him this morning. They'll run the tests today, while he's at school."

"They could be bluffing," said Colby. "They were bluffing with you."

They considered that in silence; none of them were hopeful, considering how sick Charlie had looked the day before. "Have you heard anything more from them?" asked David.

Don shook his head. "They said they'd call back at around the same time as yesterday – three o'clock." He glanced at his watch – eight-thirty a.m. The seconds were ticking away. "Okay, keep going with what you're doing – I'll try to get up to speed with the details and take over – and then you guys need to get out of here and get a couple of hours of sleep. I may need you later. I can get some junior agents and analysts to comb through video footage if you show me where you're at with it, and I can go through some, myself."

* * *

><p>P. J. Murciano stepped into his office at the stadium, shut the door, and looked at Frank and Rocky. "Anything?"<p>

Rocky shook his head, and then tilted it toward the recording apparatus on the table. "I've been here listening to air all night. Nothing. I heard Eppes get up and go to work this morning – I could hear him start the vehicle, but he didn't make any phone calls – didn't even have the radio on. The good news is, the reception from the bug in his SUV was fine all the way downtown, and I even got reception in the parking garage when he got there. Heard the vehicle door close, plain as day. I didn't hear anything from the players on their new phones – but if they're doing what you asked and not calling each other, we shouldn't."

Frank stood. "I was just touching base with Rocky. I've got to get down to the weight room, but I'll take the shift in here this evening after practice ends."

Murciano nodded. "I'll take over now. Rocky, you need to go home and get some sleep. Be back here at two – we'll need to go make the next call at 3:00."

Rocky yawned. "Okay." He jerked his head toward some wires, which ran up the wall into the paneled ceiling. "I've got you connected in your office – you'll be able to listen from your desk. The equipment's in a desk drawer, so you can shut off the volume and shut the drawer if anyone walks in. Make sure you don't turn it off, though – the equipment will record if it's still on – just turn the volume all the way down so if something comes in from one of the bugs your visitors won't hear it."

Murciano nodded and headed for the door. "Okay – let's hope Eppes has something for us at 3:00."

Moments later, he was at his desk, listening intently to the feeds from the various bugs, just as his adversary, a few miles away at the FBI offices, was at his desk watching video, just as intently.

* * *

><p>At fifteen minutes before three, they set up in Merrick's office again to take the call.<p>

Megan, David and Colby had all come back in at 2:00 to find that Don, the junior agents, and the analysts had spent a fruitless afternoon. They had found no one wearing a janitor's uniform in any of the Cal Sci campus footage. There were plenty of six-foot white males who met Amita's vague description – but too many to be helpful. Don, for his part, hadn't recognized any of the men in the clips of video he saw. One more BOLO report for Donna Bainbridge's car had also come in, but LAPD had chased it down, and found it to be a dead end.

So at a few minutes to three, Don sat in Merrick's office with his cell phone hooked back up to the tracing equipment, fighting an unfamiliar attack of nerves. If they couldn't trace this call, or find some other kind of clue…

The phone rang, and Don almost forgot to wait for the tech's signal that the equipment was on before he answered. Again, he tried to drag out the conversation by not giving his name, simply answering, "Hello."

"_Don Eppes_."

"Yes."

"_I told you I'd call. What do you have for me?"_

"Nothing. I still think you're bluffing. My brother had blood work done the other night. It was for something else, but they did a tox screen as part of it, and it all came back okay. Bottom line is; he's feeling great. I think you're lying." That was a bluff of his own; Don didn't think that Charlie was anything like fine, but he wanted to see if he could prompt an argument – maybe throw the man off guard.

There was a derisive snort on the other end but it sounded a little forced, and there was the briefest hesitation. But when the man spoke again, his voice was filled with quiet confidence. "_For a moment there, I was wondering how to convince you I'm telling the truth. But I shouldn't have to. You should be taking the conservative approach and expecting the worst – for your brother's sake. Take my word – this substance won't show up on a blood test. If you don't cooperate, Eppes, your brother is a dead man. Now what do you have on Bainbridge?_"

It was Don's turn to hesitate. He had to let the man think he was willing to cooperate. "Nothing," he finally said, heavily. "I've got my team working on it – full throttle – but we have nothing yet. How do I get hold of you if I find something?"

"_You won't. I'll call you periodically – roughly every six hours now. You'll have to do better, Eppes. Your brother's running out of time_." The call disconnected, and again there was a flurry of phone calls and activity as the tech called out the location, and the others got on the phone to LAPD. Don sat silently. He knew it would be like the previous time – the call would be from another parking lot, maybe a side street… The end result would be the same – the caller would be long gone before LAPD could get there.

The worst of it was, he couldn't think straight. The anxiety in his gut was paralyzing, overwhelming, and unexpected. After all, he and Charlie had never been that close, right? He should be able to treat this with more objectivity – but instead of being clear-headed, his thought processes seemed shackled; slow, muddied by emotion. He was coming up blank, when he needed to be on his game.

* * *

><p>Rocky arrived back at Murciano's office at the stadium to find Murciano and Frank waiting for him. He'd temporarily put a bug in his own prepaid phone so they could pick up the feed on the recording equipment at the office, and by the looks on their faces, he knew they'd heard the conversation he'd just had with Eppes. Rocky looked at Frank. "I thought you said you gave him a whole dose. Eppes said his brother was fine. This ain't gonna work too well if he's not sick."<p>

Frank already looked defensive, and he said, testily, "I just got asked that question. Yes, I gave him a whole dose. I couldn't control how much of the tea he drank, but even a little of it should have been enough. I was outside the door, I saw him take a drink, and then I took off."

Murciano was frowning. "So how do you know how much was enough?"

Frank scowled. "Stevenson told me the night he gave it to me that a drop or two was enough to do in a lab rat. He said there was enough in one vial for five people, let alone one. If the professor even drank a quarter of it, it should have done the trick."

Murciano pursed his lips. "So he either didn't drink enough of it, or Eppes is lying to us when he says his brother's feeling fine." He looked at Rocky. "Why don't you try to find out where he is? For all we know, he's at the hospital - the news article said they took him to UCLA Medical Center when he was attacked in the locker room - try there, try his school, try his house. Get a look at him and find out if this stuff is working or not. If he's really sick, then we know Eppes is lying, and we still have some leverage. If his brother's not sick, then we need to figure out some other way to apply pressure."

Rocky shrugged. "Okay, I'll check it out. But maybe the stuff is just taking longer to work in a human."

Frank shook his head. "I guess we don't know for sure, because Stevenson never tried this stuff on a person. But he thought the effects would be almost immediate. He told me nausea and vomiting show up first – and the kid did puke on Worth's shoes, remember? Stevenson said the stuff trashes your pancreas, and gave the person only two or three weeks to live, so there'd have to be some sign of it by now – and the professor's not a big guy. It'd take less of a dose for him – and if he did drink it all, he'd have to be showing signs."

Rocky shrugged again, but nodded, and headed for the door. "We'll be here all night," Murciano called after him. "We'll let you know if we hear anything from the bug in Eppes' vehicle." He turned to Frank, and Rocky heard him ask as he walked out, "So how's Worth's knee? Is he playing on Sunday?"

* * *

><p>Don faced his team across the conference room table. As he'd figured, the call location had yielded nothing – this one had come from a parking lot, too, but not a deserted one; this time it was from the parking lot of a big mall on the outskirts of the city, packed with hundreds of cars that offered the best of camouflage; the sheer quantity of parked and moving vehicles made it impossible for the LAPD officers who arrived first to pinpoint a suspect. Colby had just shut the conference room door and sat down with the others, and he said, "Now what?"<p>

They were looking at Don expectantly, but he had no answers. He ran a tired hand over his face with a sigh. "Back to basics. That's all we can do." He looked at David and Colby. "I know you're sick of looking at video feed, but we need to go round up any surveillance camera feed at the mall where the last call came from. Maybe this time's the charm. Better yet, get some of the other agents on it, and then go check on our players. They should be leaving practice by now – take a look, see where they go." He looked at Megan. "If one of the six could be convinced to crack, which one would it be?"

She thought a moment. "Deondre Wiseman," she said. "He seemed the most nervous when we talked to him – and moreover, he struck me as having a conscience. I think all of this is eating at him. If you decide to lean on him, try to appeal to his sense of right and wrong."

Don said, "Ok. Keep it low key and just watch them. Don't push it, but if you get the chance to talk to Wiseman by himself, give it a shot."

"You got it." Colby and David both sprang to their feet, and hurried out, glad to be doing something – anything – in spite of their fatigue.

"Okay," Don sighed and turned to Megan, but before he could continue, his cell phone rang. She waited patiently while he glanced at the number and answered, an odd little knot of apprehension twisting his gut. "Hi Dad, what's up?"

"_I was hoping you could tell me. Anything yet?_"

"No." Don couldn't keep the frustration out of his voice, and his answer was more curt than he intended. He could almost see the look of disappointment on his father's face.

There was a sigh on the other end, and then Alan said, "_Look Donny, I need you to go talk to your brother._" His voice was tight with worry, and Don sat up straighter. "_The hospital called; his blood tests from this morning came back and they said to bring him straight in. In fact, the doctor called personally. When I told him that Charlie was at school for a big function, he was incredulous. He said he couldn't believe he was walking around. He said Charlie's pancreatic and liver enzymes are both off the charts, along with some other markers. I didn't understand it all but it sounds serious. The doctor said he needs to come in, now. I just got back from campus, trying to convince him to go, but he refused. He says he has a presentation to give and the dinner to attend. He looks like he's running on sheer willpower. Maybe he'll listen to you._"

Don glanced at the clock on the wall out in the bullpen – it was a little before four. Surely Charlie must be nearly done by now, anyway, with his presentations. He could skip the dinner. "Okay, I will. I'll go now."

"_Good_," said Alan, and Don could hear the relief in his voice. "_Call me when you get there and_ _I'll head out. I'm going down to UCLA Medical Center to talk to the doctor, and to see if I can do anything to get his registration started. Take him straight there. I'll be waiting for you. Thanks, son._"

"Okay, see you there." Don hung up and looked at Megan, who sat watching him, silently. "It's Charlie," he said, unnecessarily. "The hospital wants him to come in, but he's being stubborn. My dad wants me to go over to campus and get him – drag him out of there, if necessary."

"What can I do?" asked Megan. She looked exhausted herself, but she asked the question briskly, and Don felt a surge of gratitude. She hadn't been with them long, but she was already an essential member of his team.

He looked back, suddenly at a loss for words, and his shoulders slumped. "I'm not sure," he said, his eyes dropping to the table so she couldn't see the defeat in them. '_Ah, hell_,' he thought, '_you're not fooling anyone, especially her_.' He raised his eyes again and looked directly into hers, and shook his head. "I don't know where to go next. It's like Bainbridge has vanished into thin air. The worst of it is; I can't even think straight."

"It _is _your brother we're talking about here," said Megan. "It's understandable that you're dealing with some emotion. That can make it tough to think."

Don snorted softly, and looked away. "It's not like Charlie and I were ever that close. Hell, up until a year and half ago, we were practically strangers. There is no reason I shouldn't be objective enough to handle this."

"Actually, there is a very good reason," said Megan, gently. "You've come to care about him. And in spite of that, I think you're doing a great job at being objective. I told Merrick so, not a half hour ago."

Don's head came up, sharply. "Merrick talked to you about me?"

She nodded. "He caught me just after the phone call, after the rest of you had walked out. He wanted to know if I thought he should pull you from this case. He could see that you were a little rattled during the call. I told him that it was good for you to sound rattled; it made you sound believable. And I told him you were perfectly capable of keeping the lead on this." One eyebrow rose, and she studied him. "You _are_, aren't you? Capable? Because if you're not, you'll put me in a bad spot. I'm new around here, and Merrick doesn't know me yet. One bad call on my part…,"

"I just told you, I'm not thinking straight," Don said slowly. "I have to be honest with you; I truly don't know which way to go next. That being said, I don't want to get taken off this case."

She held his gaze for a moment. "Well, this can't be the first case where you've hit a dead end. Maybe it's just that – a temporary dead end. It happens in a lot of cases. It usually has nothing to do with either objectivity or capability. I'm sure you'll think of something to get things moving again. Or one of the rest of us will. We _are_ a team, here; we all have the responsibility to come up with a break. So, is there anything you would like me to do? Run BOLOs again? Watch video?" She smiled. "You name it; you're in charge."

"Come with me," said Don, impulsively. "Come help me talk Charlie into leaving campus. I'll just rub him the wrong way – you'd probably be much better at convincing him. We can drive separately so you can just take off from there once we talk him into it."

She grinned, and rose. "Okay, boss, you've got it."

He thought about her on the way there. He had a bit of an unfortunate history of getting involved with female co-workers – it had happened in Albuquerque, when he'd worked at there, and he'd gotten more attached than he should have to his former profiler, Terri Lake. Megan was different. It wasn't that she wasn't attractive – with her green eyes and honey colored hair, she most definitely was. She was smart, too, and he liked smart. But her appeal was different; he felt comfortable with her, as if she were one of the guys. Or maybe the sister he'd never had. He felt he could be open with her, and he had been – unusually open – especially for him. All of those things were the basis of a solid working relationship, maybe even a good friendship – but no more than that. Besides, he'd had his eye on the AUSA over at the U.S. attorney's office – a tall, leggy brunette named Robin Brooks. Not that he'd much time to think about her, lately… Come to think of it, Robin was a co-worker of sorts from time to time, too, when their offices collaborated on cases, so it could be said he was interested in yet another co-worker. He sighed, and wondered what his new profiler would have to say about that.

* * *

><p>Rocky Dellarocco finally found what he was looking for.<p>

He'd gone sniffing around the Eppes' Craftsman home first, with no luck. No cars in the driveway and a quick look through a couple of windows revealed a quiet, empty house. There had only been one other car there when he'd stopped the night before to bug Eppes' SUV, and he went to look for it – first at UCLA Medical Center, and then at the Cal Sci campus. He'd struck out at the hospital; as he drove away he had no way of knowing he'd just missed the car he was looking for, containing Alan Eppes, who arrived there five minutes after Rocky had left. So Rocky went on to Cal Sci. He didn't see the car there either, but he was out of options, so he decided to park his van and take a walk, to see if he could find the professor on campus somewhere. His orders were pretty vague – find out if the professor was sick or not – and he knew he'd need to get pretty close in order to make that determination, but he had to find the guy first.

He pulled into a parking spot at Cal Sci with a quick glance at the nearest security camera, positioned at the top of a street light pole. He knew the cameras were there; Frank, who had visited the campus the week before with his poisonous delivery, had warned him about them. Rocky had taken precautions; he was wearing a ball cap and sunglasses, and had pasted a medium brown goatee on his chin. Up close, the fake beard wouldn't pass muster; it didn't even match his real hair, which was much darker brown, but at a distance and especially on a security video, it was more than enough disguise. With most of his short hair hidden under the ball cap, the different beard color would throw a casual observer off track.

Rocky turned off the van, and had pulled up a campus map through the browser on his cell phone, when he had a stroke of luck. Directly behind him across the aisle was an empty parking spot and a familiar SUV pulled into it, just as the campus map showed up on his screen. Rocky slunk down a little in his seat and watched in the side mirror as Don Eppes got out. Another car had pulled in not too far away, and Rocky saw a woman get out – it was the woman agent on Eppes' team, he realized. They met directly behind his vehicle, and Rocky hit the window switch and got the window down a bit, just in time to hear Eppes say, "Okay, as soon as we find Charlie and convince him to go, you can head home and get some rest – I'll need someone with a clear head tomorrow." Rocky saw her nod, and they headed across campus.

Rocky frowned, digesting the statement. The agent could have come to convince his brother to leave because he wasn't feeling well – it was a possibility. Or maybe his brother was fine, and the agent just wanted his help on the case. He still didn't have proof one way or another that the professor was indeed ill – but he did know that if he sat there long enough, they would come back this way, and he'd get a look. He settled in to wait. And while he waited he thought about what the next step should be, if they found out that professor was not as sick as they'd hoped.

* * *

><p>End, Chapter 15<p> 


	16. Chapter 16

Camouflage

_Author's note: I may be posting these too fast for some people to keep up - I can slow them down if these are coming too fast. I know MGC, cherry619 and nessy22 are with me, but not sure about the others. I am going away for the weekend - was considering waiting to post another, but I'll give you all this one to chew on...this was one of my favorite chapters to write, as it contained the original wisp of a plot bunny for this story. _

Chapter 16

"Uuuhnnn." Charlie doubled over, the groan escaping despite his best efforts. Luckily, there was no one there to hear it.

He had ducked into the men's room in the hallway just outside the auditorium while the hall was filling with grant commission members, faculty, and students. The day was winding down; Charlie had sat through previous presentations, some of which he'd collaborated on, and he'd mingled with the grant commission members during breaks, promoting the campus and its faculty. Now it was his turn – he had the last presentation of the day, following which was dinner in the faculty dining room.

It was an honor to go last. He knew that Jacob Turner, the math department head, had put him last intentionally; he'd trotted Charlie out on previous occasions as the 'future' of Cal Sci – he was the star of the department, the young, already famous prodigy, the wave of the future. Most of the other members of the department were good about the fuss over Charlie even though they had more seniority, but there were a few who grumbled over it – most notably the ones who had the best chance to take over as head of the math department when Turner retired. There was talk that Charlie would leapfrog them all to the top, as young as he was. Charlie ignored those rumors for the most part, figuring it for idle talk. And anyway, it might not matter much if they couldn't manage to find Donna Bainbridge. He'd leapfrog over them all right, right into the grave...

Charlie shook his head to dispel the thought, and tried to focus as the pain slowly receded. He forced his mind on his lecture. Yes, it was an honor to go last, but it was also a responsibility. He had to be sure the commission members walked away with a good feeling about Cal Sci, and a confidence that the money they bestowed, in whatever amount they deemed appropriate, would yield good returns. He had to be sure they left excited about the potential research projects that Cal Sci was proposing – and here he was, bent double in pain, just minutes before going on. Thank God it seemed to be subsiding.

The sharp waves of pain were a new, troublesome addition to the general low level pain and bouts of nausea he'd been experiencing, and he'd had one excruciating wave already that day. That had been hours ago, so he hoped that meant that once this one was over, he'd be functional again for a while. He knew the spasms meant he was getting worse, and earlier, he'd finally pulled aside Jacob Turner and told him that he was ill, and after tonight, was probably going to be off for a while. He let Turner know he would be checking into UCLA Medical Center for tests that evening, but beyond that, he didn't elaborate – he couldn't, without divulging details of the case. He promised Turner he'd deliver his presentation and stick it out through dinner, which was an important opportunity for networking, before he left. Afterward, he had told Larry and Amita what he'd done, and he could see relief on both of their faces when he told them he was checking into the hospital right after dinner. They'd made it clear that they were distressed that he was even there that evening, and even more upset that he was presenting.

_Maybe_ presenting. He panted, willing the pain away, but it was subsiding more slowly this time. Finally he was able to straighten, and he splashed water on his face. He wiped the water away with a paper towel, then stood straight, fixing his tie, smoothing his suit jacket. Then he cleared his throat and managed a wan smile at his reflection, and walked out.

The auditorium was quiet and dark; they'd turned down the lights and Turner was at the podium. His introduction was already underway, and Charlie saw the look of relief on Turner's face when he glanced sideways and saw the young professor standing in the wings. When Charlie heard his name he walked out, smiling, with a grateful nod to the applauding assembly. It was show time.

"Come on, Charlie Eppes," he thought to himself, as he headed toward the podium. "This might be your last lecture – make it a good one."

* * *

><p>Megan Reeves slid into a seat at the back of the auditorium, next to Don.<p>

They'd arrived a few moments ago and spotted Charlie's friends, Amita Ramanujan and Larry Fleinhardt, milling around with the crowd in the lobby outside the doors of the auditorium. That crowd was beginning to drift toward the auditorium entrance; they had been on a break, Megan surmised, and were heading back in for another presentation. There was no sign of Charlie, and Don caught Amita and Larry and pulled them aside.

The two of them informed Don that Charlie was backstage getting ready for his presentation, the final one of the evening. Megan could see Don hesitating – she knew he wanted to find Charlie and get out of there, but when Amita told him that Charlie had promised he would head for the hospital right after dinner, he nodded reluctantly. Megan knew if Don had his way he'd be already on his way out with his brother, but he told them he would wait until Charlie was done with his presentation, at least.

They had stood talking for a few more moments. Larry had pointed out the grant committee members, and valiantly tried to give Megan and Don a simplified crash course on the material that Charlie would cover, so they could 'enjoy the presentation more fully' but Megan could see that Don was distracted. He kept glancing in through the doors looking for Charlie; he had a line of sight on the podium and the stage, and Megan was sure Larry's explanation was falling on deaf ears. She was fascinated, herself, even though she didn't quite understand all of it; Larry's enthusiasm was contagious.

Now, as she sat and listened to the head of the math department make Charlie's introduction, her eyes wandered down to the front of the auditorium, to where Larry sat with Amita. Larry was sort of an odd man, with a strange way of looking at the world and stranger mannerisms; he had a way of placing a hand – or both of them – on his face or his head in various positions as he talked, as if the hands had a mind of their own, and had found their resting spots without his knowledge. He certainly wasn't Megan's type – in fact, he wasn't like any man she had met before, but as she looked at the back of his head, she kept seeing his animated face and blue eyes, glowing with excitement as he spoke. She shook herself, mentally. '_Not your type_,' she thought, '_but maybe an interesting person to get to know_.'

She glanced at Don, who was listening, seemingly impassively, to the head of the math department, a man named Jacob Turner. To another observer Don's face would seem expressionless, but she was starting to know him well enough to recognize that when he dropped that mask over his face, it was just that – a mask – and that he had small tells, wisps of expression, that she was beginning to be able to read. For example, his seemingly relaxed pose hid the tension in his shoulders – in his whole body, for that matter, and even in the semi-darkness, she could see the flickers of emotions in his dark eyes – worry, anxiety, impatience. She wondered what he thought of Turner's introduction – the man painted a glowing picture of Charlie, and Megan tried to read Don's expression. Did all of this attention on Charlie remind him of their early years? How had he handled it then? Megan had to imagine that there might have been just a bit of jealousy – rivalry often existed between siblings even when there wasn't a young genius in the household. There might have been some jealousy on Charlie's part as well. She could imagine him in high school, a child trying to keep up socially with his teenage brother. She wondered what they really felt about each other now – would those old rivalries rise up and choke their new relationship, or had they grown beyond them? When Don listened to Charlie's introduction, what did he feel? Old feelings of envy – or did he feel pride? Maybe a little of both.

One thing was certain, Turner was sparing no adjectives as he introduced Charlie Eppes; superlatives were rolling from his lips. _Brilliant, exciting, the future of Cal Sci, cutting edge of mathematics_; the man went on. Something about the 'Eppes Convergence,' which apparently was a globally recognized mathematical theorem or work that bore Charlie's name. Turner made him sound more like a rock star than a mathematician, and when he called Charlie's name and Charlie finally walked out on stage, it was to enthusiastic applause.

Megan saw Don's eyes narrow as he watched Charlie make the podium. Charlie was smiling, but Megan could see lines of pain in his face. He launched into his presentation without hesitation, however, and although he sounded slightly breathless, he was so animated when he talked that it seemed that his quick breathing was generated by excitement over his topic, rather than anything else. Megan tried to follow the lecture; it apparently was some new way of interpreting and synthesizing data, and although she wasn't quite sure what the significance of it was, she could see the grant committee members smiling and nodding their heads, emphatically.

Charlie could certainly be awkward socially, but he was a gifted lecturer – she could tell he was completely consumed with excitement over his subject, and he knew how to transfer that excitement to his audience. It was as if the numbers endowed him with an ability he didn't have otherwise – he moved about the stage, darting, gesturing, his dark eyes shining as he worked his way through his material, as if he were a preacher delivering an impassioned sermon, or an actor, delivering an Oscar-worthy performance. Megan sat transfixed. If she hadn't understood it before, she did now. Math was everything to Charlie. It had never occurred to her that someone could be so passionate about mathematics or physics; they had always seemed rather dry to her – but twice in a few moments, she'd seen genuine excitement in someone's eyes as he talked about applied math – first in Larry's, and now in Charlie's. There was a whole other world out there, she thought to herself, one she hadn't bothered to even look at before. Her eyes drifted again to Larry, thoughtfully.

Charlie's lecture was coming to a close, and Megan glanced at Don. He'd obviously been as moved as she was by Charlie's performance – undoubtedly more so. The mask had fallen away, and there was a wistful look on Don's face, that answered the question she'd posed herself earlier. _Pride_, not jealousy – pride was evident on his face, along with regret. She looked back at Charlie, with a jolt. He'd been so captivating, she'd almost forgotten – this could very well be his last lecture. As the crowd rose to its feet, applauding, her heart twisted as she looked at him, and then at Don, and she knew that Don was thinking the same thing.

* * *

><p>It took Don and Megan a few minutes to work their way down from the back of the auditorium through the crowd. They found Charlie in a side hallway outside the auditorium, sitting on a bench, with Amita, Larry, and Turner hovering over him. Charlie's face was gray and he was trembling; there was no doubt that he'd summoned most of his last reserves of energy to give his speech. Don felt his stomach knot. As Charlie looked up at him, he said quietly, "Charlie, we need to go."<p>

"I'll be all right in a minute," said Charlie faintly, and then, with a bit more stubbornness, "I need to talk with a few people over at the dinner. I won't even stay to eat. It won't take long. Then I'll go."

"Charlie -," pleaded Amita, but then Turner stepped in and motioned to Don to step aside, and Don lost the rest of what she was saying. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Megan step forward and start talking quietly to Charlie, trying to do what Don had brought her there for – talk Charlie into leaving.

Turner kept his voice low, but his eyes were flashing with anger. "I'm not sure what's wrong with Charlie; he wouldn't tell me, but I have one thing I want to say to you, agent. I read the papers; I know he was hurt last week. If he ends up in the hospital because of working on one of your cases, you really need to rethink what you're doing. He's not some dime-a-dozen data hound – he has the potential to make significant global contributions to the world of mathematics, and by extension, physics. There are very few people in this world who have that ability, and he's one of them. You are doing both him and the world a grave injustice by squandering his talents to chase after street scum."

Don felt a rush of anger in response as Turner began his diatribe, but it vanished as suddenly as it appeared. Turner was right, he thought, with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. The man had already turned on his heel and walked away, and Don turned to see Charlie rising slowly to his feet, with Larry's assistance. Megan slipped away from them to Don's side and said quietly, "I'm sorry, I tried. He's adamant about going to this dinner – he said he wouldn't need to be there long. He only wants to attend the cocktail hour and talk to a couple of grant committee members – he said he wouldn't stay for the meal. It won't take that much longer – maybe the best thing is just to let him go."

Don sighed, and nodded. "Yeah, okay, maybe you're right. Look, why don't you get out of here? I can handle it from here."

She frowned. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. If I need help with him, Larry and Amita are here. This is going to take a little while – no sense in keeping you here."

"Well, if you don't mind, I'll stick around." She hesitated, then said, "Larry invited me to the dinner; I think I might like to check it out."

Don eyed her – had he seen just a hint of a blush? But now she was eyeing him steadily, and he said with a shrug, "Sure. You're off the clock – it's not a problem."

She nodded and stepped over to Larry, just as Turner swiveled and walked back toward Don. He looked flustered, and ran a hand through hair that was beginning to look a little disheveled. "I'm sorry," he blurted, as he reached Don's side. "I was rude – I'm just really worried about him – he looks terrible." He paused, his eyes searching Don's face. "What is it? What's wrong – do you know?"

"We're not sure," Don murmured. "He needs to go in for some tests." Neither statement was false, he told himself, even though he wasn't giving Turner the whole truth.

Turner searched his face for a moment, then nodded, with a sigh. "I told him to skip the dinner – he said he would think about it. He said he might stop by the cocktail hour. You're welcome to come with him if he goes – we made arrangements for dinner in the building next door. I need to get over there." With a nod, he turned on his heel, and was off.

Charlie was on his feet now, and Don moved over to his side. "I'm going to stop at the cocktail hour," Charlie said, his eyes daring Don to argue. "There are just a few people that I want to talk to. The building where the dinner is being held is on the way to the parking lot anyway."

Don nodded; he knew that look, and knew if he argued Charlie would just dig his heels in and maybe even up the ante and declare he was staying for dinner, as well. Charlie stared at him a moment, as if expecting Don to disagree, but when he didn't Charlie relaxed a bit; his shoulders slumped and he sighed. "Okay," he said, "let's go."

* * *

><p>They followed Amita, Larry and Megan down the hallway and out of the building. Darkness had descended while they were inside, and a chilly wind blew across campus. Charlie walked slowly; he couldn't do anything but – he had no energy left. It was as if the lecture had sucked the last ounce of strength from him – or maybe it was the realization that it was almost time to go, and he might not be coming back. A part of him truly did want to go to the dinner; ordinarily he would have been thrilled by the opportunity to mingle with his peers and the grant committee members and have in-depth discussions on the latest in applied mathematics, but he was so miserable he knew the reality of it wouldn't live up to his expectations anyway – he wouldn't be able to enjoy it. He had insisted on going primarily because he was trying to prolong the end of 'normal' – the possible end of life as he knew it. But what was the point, when he felt so awful the experience would be anything but normal?<p>

He was having a hard time keeping up; Megan, Larry and Amita were far ahead of him on the walk already. Don was strolling slowly alongside him, and as the others stopped to wait for them, he waved them on. Amita hesitated, lingering, then turned and kept pace with Larry and Megan, probably suspecting that Don wanted to talk. Charlie had rather expected that, as well, but as he glanced sideways at his brother, Don was silent. His face was closed, and his eyes were ahead of them, his view stretching along the sidewalk.

The others were already out of sight – they had entered the next building. For most, that building was a ten minute walk from the auditorium, but for Charlie, it seemed an almost impossible distance away. Charlie took a few more steps, trying to pick up the pace, but he felt weak and short of breath. The extra effort made him breathe more heavily, and he could feel his gut begin to contract…

"Uhhh." The pain hit him in the midsection like a sledgehammer, forcing air out. It made his head swim and sapped the strength from his legs, and they buckled. He was dimly aware of strong arms around him, easing him to his knees, and Don's exclamation of concern.

He rocked on his knees slightly, doubled over, gasping as the pain crested, a knife twisting in his gut. Don's arm around his shoulders tightened, and he heard him murmur, "Just breathe, Charlie – come on, buddy."

He nearly went out; the world grew black for a second, then slowly came back into focus. He was sweating, shaking, still gasping for air, still on his knees supported by Don's arms around his shoulders as the pain began to subside. Another wave of pain – they were coming much closer together now; it had only been about an hour since the last one, maybe less.

He knelt there for a moment trying to get his breath; he could feel the pressure of Don's arm easing as he saw that Charlie was beginning to recover, but his brother kept a hand on his shoulder. Charlie managed to get a few words out between breaths. "I think I'm going to skip that cocktail hour."

"I think that's a good idea," said Don softly. "I'll text Megan – she can tell Larry and he can pass the word to Turner. Maybe I'll ask her to have him send security out with a cart or a wheelchair."

"No -," blurted Charlie. Then more quietly: "No wheelchair. I can walk to the car. Just give me a minute." It was bad enough to leave campus behind – he was damned sure not going to do it in a wheelchair. He knelt there a few more seconds, getting his breath, then held a hand up, and Don helped him to his feet.

Charlie moved even more slowly on the way back to the car; he didn't want to bring on another debilitating wave of pain. It seemed that the episode had broken Don's silence – he talked all the way to the parking lot. Charlie suspected it was a pep talk of sorts – that Don was trying to keep his spirits up and his mind occupied. He didn't even catch all of what Don was talking about – something about phone calls and surveillance video tapes and Colby and David – he was too busy concentrating on breathing. He was aware though, that Don was trying to reassure him that they were looking hard for Donna Bainbridge.

At length they reached the edge of the lot. Charlie could see Don's SUV, parked right at the front edge, and he felt a rush of both relief and despair. He stopped and turned and looked toward campus, one long last look. Don fell silent, and followed his gaze. Charlie frowned – he had the sense he'd forgotten something…

"Ah, man," he said, putting a hand to his forehead. "We should have stopped to get my laptop."

"Charlie." Don shook his head. "You need to stop stalling. I know you don't want to go, but you need to see a doctor."

"No really," Charlie said. He looked at Don pleadingly. "If they admit me I can work while I'm at the hospital – if I have my computer, I can finish my analysis of likely spots Bainbridge might have gone. You can't deny me the ability to help myself – please. Look, I'll wait in the SUV and let you run and get it, if you want." He pulled his office keys out of his pocket and held them up, dangling.

Don hesitated, then sighed, pulled his SUV keys out of his pocket, and handed them to Charlie, taking his office keys. "Okay. I'll get your laptop. You wait in the SUV. I'll be right back." He gave Charlie a stern look as he pulled out his cell phone. "No more stalling. I'm going to call Dad and let him know we'll be on our way in a few minutes."

Charlie nodded and dutifully headed for the SUV, as Don put the phone to his ear and strode off under the shadows of the trees. As he reached the SUV Charlie could hear his brother's voice floating back through the darkness. He hit unlock and climbed in, suddenly so weary he could barely navigate the step up into the vehicle. He slumped in the passenger seat and shut the door, staring out the windshield at the darkened campus, wondering if he would ever see it again.

* * *

><p>Rocky watched closely in his side mirror as the brothers approached the agent's SUV. They were walking at a leisurely pace and Don Eppes was talking, and the female agent wasn't with them. Rocky frowned; it was dark and hard to see, but the professor appeared to be fine, although they <em>were<em> walking very slowly…. He pulled out his cell phone and hit dial. Murciano answered.

"I see 'em," said Rocky. "I'm parked at Cal Sci and both brothers are walking up to the SUV. The professor looks okay, but they are moving pretty slowly – really slowly, in fact. Not sure if it's because they're discussing something, or waiting for the woman agent – she got here at the same time as Don Eppes and she's not with them now – or if it's because the professor's not well. Okay – now they stopped – I think Eppes just gave the professor his keys. The professor's heading for the agent's SUV and the agent is on the phone, walking back toward campus. Maybe he's going back to find the woman. Hmm – the professor just got in the passenger side of the SUV."

"_So does he look sick, or not?_" Frank's voice came over the line – obviously Murciano had the phone in his office on speaker.

"I don't know. It's dark – it was hard to see his face. He was moving pretty slowly, and he climbed into the vehicle like an old man, so maybe – but I just don't know for sure."

"_You're alone there?"_ That was Murciano.

Rocky took a quick glance around. "Yeah. There's no one else in the lot – a bunch of cars around, but I don't see any people. I'm parked right across the aisle from him, facing the other way. It's just him and me."

"_If he's not sick, we need to up the ante. This might be our best chance to do that. And if he _is_ sick, this will work too. It's risky, but if we want pressure on the agent, this would do it. Here's what I'm thinking."_

He explained, and Rocky listened closely. They went back and forth a few minutes on it, and Rocky glanced at the time on his phone. "Okay. You know there are security cameras here – but I have a disguise, and I can deal with the van afterward. I have an idea of how to get him out of the SUV, to make it easier. Okay, yes – I think it's a good idea. I need to hurry though – we've been talking awhile and I don't know when the agents will be back. I'll call you back in a bit." He hung up, turned the key in the ignition, and threw his van into reverse.

* * *

><p>Charlie had been sitting there for several minutes when he heard the vehicle start up behind him, but he paid little attention. He was lost in his musings, and fatigue was beginning to set in. He blinked, trying to hold his eyelids open, when a sudden jolt and a sharp noise made him sit bolt upright. He glanced, startled, in the rearview mirror, and could see a white van behind him – too close. A man with a ball cap and a short beard got out of it, shaking his head ruefully, and it sank in – the idiot had just backed into Don's SUV. With a sigh, Charlie opened the passenger door, and slid out to view the damage. "Great," he muttered to himself. "Just what we need."<p>

* * *

><p>End, Chapter 16<p> 


	17. Chapter 17

Camouflage

Chapter 17

_Author's note: Ok – the readers have spoken! I got home from my trip today – here is the next chapter…_

_By the way – I use UCLA Medical Center extensively in this fic – I should insert a disclaimer here that applies to all chapters in this story. The UCLA Medical Center discussed here is not intended to represent any real buildings or personnel, and any resemblance is purely accidental._

* * *

><p>Charlie approached the back of the SUV on shaky legs. He was breathing a little more quickly than he should be for his slow movements, and he was aware of the man watching him from behind dark sunglasses. No wonder the idiot had backed into the SUV; it was dark and he was still wearing sunglasses. "I'm sorry," the man said, "I must have misjudged how close I was. The good news is; I don't think I did much damage." He pointed to a location just below the SUV's right rear tail light.<p>

Charlie sent him a skeptical look and bent over to peer at the spot the man was indicating. There was a small dent, but the man was right; it wasn't bad. Charlie straightened and began to turn, and suddenly was seized by the shoulder and spun around. A backhand collided with his face and stars exploded in his vision. His legs went from under him and he slid down the back side of the SUV, the world spinning around him. He felt the sensation of being lifted and turned, and then an arm came around his chest and under his arms and the man began to drag him. His surroundings were still wheeling crazily; a black and white kaleidoscope of shifting street lights and night shadows, and he knew he was on the verge of losing consciousness. That thought galvanized him and he began to fight his attacker, gasping and struggling, as a shout rang out.

* * *

><p>Don Eppes was approaching the SUV, hurrying along with Charlie's laptop, which he'd found already zipped up in its case on Charlie's desk. He was still under the blackness of the trees but he could see the parking lot clearly under the lights. He saw the white van behind his vehicle back out and stop suddenly, heard the sound of metal on metal and saw the unmistakable jolt of his SUV, and he knew immediately that his vehicle had been hit. Cursing under his breath, he quickened his pace to a trot as Charlie's door opened. He could see his brother slide out of the seat and make his way back to the back side of the vehicle, out of sight. Don picked up the pace – then slowed in shock as Charlie came into view again. He was behind the vehicle with another man – Don could see them through the gap between the SUV's driver's side door and vehicle next to it. Charlie was being dragged by the man, struggling feebly – Don had to stare for a second, the sight was so unexpected. He let go of the computer and went for his gun, accelerating his trot to a sprint, shouting, "Stop! FBI!"<p>

The man's head jerked up as Don charged out of the shadows and toward the gap between the vehicles. He reacted immediately; throwing Charlie to the ground in the aisle behind the van. Don still hadn't cleared the end of the SUV and his own vehicle was blocking any chance at a shot, and the man was inside the van and had shut the door before Don got around the end. He leveled his Glock for a shot, then instead lowered it and lunged for Charlie as the van's tail lights came on – the man was backing up and Charlie was in his path, trying dazedly to sit up. Don grabbed him under the arms and dragged him aside as the van roared back, then with a squeal of tires, surged forward. He still had his Glock in his hand and he tried to maneuver that hand around Charlie and into firing position as he staggered backwards, but he couldn't get the muzzle up fast enough, and he was off balance. He backpedaled and banged into the SUV behind him and went down, still holding Charlie, as the van screeched around the end of the aisle and roared off into the night.

He just sat there for a minute with his back to the SUV and Charlie supported against his chest, breathing heavily, trying to recover from the shock. Charlie was stirring, but his head drooped, and Don set his gun down and gently twisted his shoulders around and tilted his face upward. His brother's eyes rolled, and he blinked – he looked dazed, and a trickle of blood ran from his mouth. His breathing was ragged. A fresh shot of alarm ran through Don. "Charlie – Charlie, can you hear me?"

Charlie blinked again and squinted at him, his head still bobbing a bit, trying to focus. He probed his cheek with his tongue, gently, and Don saw the welt on his cheek – he'd been struck, or injured in the struggle. The blood was probably coming from a cut on the inside of his mouth. Don's eyes narrowed. "Did you cut your cheek?"

Charlie nodded. "Guy hit me," he mumbled, frowning. He gingerly raised a hand to touch his face.

Don slipped the safety back on his Glock, holstered it, and managed to extricate himself from his sitting position between Charlie and the vehicle while still keeping a hand on Charlie's shoulder to make sure he didn't keel over. He took a quick glance around the lot, making sure that it was clear, and then bent and put his hands under Charlie's shoulders and hauled him to his feet. Charlie swayed dangerously, and Don draped one of Charlie's arms over his shoulders and guided him back around to the passenger side of his SUV, and got him inside. He could see the laptop lying where he dropped it in the grass and jogged over to retrieve it, pulling out his cell phone.

"Megan," he said, when she answered. "I need your help. Charlie and I just had an incident in the parking lot." He explained what had happened, then told her, "I need you to call LAPD and report this, and get out here and do a check of the scene. It looks like they took off, but bring campus security with you – make sure you have backup. We need to get the footage from the surveillance cameras in the lot – the guy is undoubtedly on it, and so is his van. I don't know how much physical evidence there will be, but get some crime scene guys out here, and get a BOLO out on that van." He rattled off the license plate number – he'd gotten that at least – he'd been on his ass at eye level with the plate as the van had spun away. "I need to get Charlie to the hospital - I'm taking him to UCLA Medical Center, and I'll be there if you need to get hold of me. We'll get a crime lab tech to look at my SUV later – there may be paint scrapes to match to the paint on the van."

While he was talking he strode back to the SUV, tossed Charlie's computer bag in the back seat, and slid into the driver's seat. As he disconnected the call he looked at Charlie, and the sight prompted him to quickly start the vehicle. Charlie was huddled, shaking in his seat, his face pale. He looked to be on the verge of shock, and Don reached over and strapped him in, then backed out hurriedly; his tires squealing a bit as he shifted into drive and stepped on the gas. As he exited the parking lot he hit his lights and sped through the darkened streets. There was no doubt in his mind he had interrupted a kidnapping attempt, and a brazen one – right in the campus parking lot under the security cameras. Whoever was behind this was getting desperate and taking more risks. There was no telling to what lengths they would go or what they might attempt next, and he kept a watchful eye on his rearview mirror all the way to UCLA Medical Center.

* * *

><p>"Shit!" exclaimed Rocky under his breath, and he smacked the top of his steering wheel as he shot onto Interstate 10. The plan had almost been brilliant – kidnapping the professor would have surely put more pressure on the agent into complying with Murciano's demands whether or not Charlie Eppes was ill, but especially if he was sick – the agent would know his brother would get no medical treatment at all until he gave them Bainbridge. He had expected Don Eppes to be gone longer – by a few minutes anyway. He obviously hadn't gone to find the female agent after all; he'd returned alone. Just a few more seconds and Rocky would have had the professor in the van, and they would have been gone.<p>

On the highway, he forced himself to let up on the gas until he was going the speed limit – he could not afford to be stopped by police now, although he had to get the van out of sight as soon as possible. He pulled out his cell phone and hit Murciano's number and as soon as Murciano answered, he said, "No go."

"_I heard - at least part of it. I could hear Eppes talking when he got in the vehicle._ _What happened_?" Murciano's voice was sharp.

Rocky told him, waited for Murciano to stop swearing and then said, "I violently agree. It was a hell of a lot of risk for nothing. I'm on my way back with the van. I need to get it out of sight. We'll need to paint it and change the plates. If we do that, we should be okay. I don't think they'll be able to find me – it was dark, and between my ball cap, sunglasses and fake beard it'll be hard for them to identify me, even if I'm on the parking lot surveillance video. There is one bit of good news."

"_What's that?"_

"The professor. When he got out of the SUV, he could barely walk, and he was breathing hard. He tried to fight me as I was dragging him, but he was weak as a kitten. I'm guessing he'll be in a hospital soon – maybe that's where they were heading."

"_You sure about that?"_

"Oh, yeah," said Rocky emphatically. "He's definitely sick."

"Y_es, I heard Eppes saying something about taking him to UCLA Medical Center._ _He must have been outside his vehicle; I just caught the tail end of the conversation as he got in. He was also talking to someone about matching paint scrapes from the van, and he gave them the license plate number - you'd better get that thing out of sight._"

* * *

><p>When Don and Charlie got to UCLA Medical Center, they found that Alan had already gone through most of the paperwork on Charlie's behalf and the hospital admitted him directly, skipping the ER and taking him directly to a room. Don stepped out of the room as Charlie pulled off his shirt to change into a hospital gown, and Don winced as he glanced at him. His brother looked painfully thin, and the simple act of removing his shirt seemed to tax him. While a nurse got Charlie situated in his room, Don had gone to sit with Alan in a nearby waiting area. There, he explained what had happened the parking lot. Alan was already worried by Charlie's appearance and the ominous sound of the test results, and the story of the attack shook him, visibly. As soon as the nurse was out of Charlie's room, Alan was on his feet and heading back in, and Don followed him in to wait for the doctor.<p>

They hadn't been there long before the doctor appeared, carrying a clipboard and a file. He was about fifty, with sandy hair turning gray and pale blue eyes filled with worry. He apparently had met Alan already; Don introduced himself, and the doctor held out his hand to each of them, and lastly to Charlie. "I'm Doctor Schilling," he said. He spoke to Charlie. "Is it all right if they are in the room while we talk?"

"Of course," said Charlie. His voice was husky, a little tight, and an angry red mark was starting to stand out on his cheek from where he'd been struck. He seemed subdued; the attack and the rushed admission had obviously disturbed him.

"Okay," said Schilling. "I've been assigned as your lead physician. You should know that we have several specialists involved, and tonight I am representing not only myself, but them and their analyses. I understand that there is some suspicion that you ingested a poison or a foreign substance. I can tell you that we have run every test we know from the samples you submitted, and we have not been able to identify anything of that type in your blood. However, we feel strongly that there was something, or perhaps there still is something, that does not show up on our tests. Your pancreatic enzymes indicate a fairly severe case of pancreatitis. Your liver enzymes are also off – perhaps because of the substance itself or perhaps as a secondary result of the pancreatitis. If you don't mind, I'd like to do a brief examination."

Charlie nodded, and Schilling approached the bed, quickly donned gloves, and gently probed Charlie's upper abdomen. As light as Schilling's touch was, Don could see Charlie go white, and beads of sweat appeared on his brow. At length, Schilling nodded and stepped back, stripping off his gloves. He frowned. "That welt on your cheek – did you fall?"

Charlie shook his head. "I – uh," he hesitated, looking at Don, obviously not sure how much he should say.

Don spoke softly. "We had a little – altercation – in the parking lot with an unknown assailant."

Schilling's eyebrows rose and he looked at Charlie. "You were struck?" He frowned again and looked at his notes. "We'll need to watch for signs of concussion, considering how recently your last concussion was." He looked up from the clipboard. "Your pancreas is very inflamed. A pancreas normally reacts every time you eat or drink, and yours is in overdrive. It is overproducing pancreatic enzymes. In small amounts they help you digest your food, but in amounts this large they are harmful. The only way to treat pancreatitis this advanced is to stop all food and water, to allow it to calm down. That is standard treatment for pancreatitis no matter what the cause. We are going to admit you, put you on an IV to keep you hydrated, and try to get your pancreas more settled while we work to identify the substance that caused this. Are you following me?"

Charlie nodded. He glanced at Don and Alan; he looked like a scared kid, his dark eyes huge in his pale face – a striking change from the confident, brilliant lecturer on the stage a short time ago.

"Okay then," said Schilling. At odds with the worry in his eyes, his voice was brisk and upbeat, impersonal. At least to Don, the need for the charade seemed ominous, rather than reassuring. "That's the game plan. We will be taking more blood samples and running more tests. We will get you some pain medication, and we may put you on oxygen if you feel short of breath – that can sometimes accompany a severe case of pancreatitis. We will keep you updated on what we find as we run the tests. Any questions?"

Charlie shook his head. "No," he said softly.

"Okay, good." Schilling held out his hand again to Charlie, and then turned to Don. "Agent, if you don't mind, I'd like to talk to you about how you think this substance might have been delivered." He indicated the door to the hallway with his head, and at Don's nod, headed toward it.

Alan followed them out, and Schilling shut Charlie's door and moved a few steps down the hall.

Alan looked at the doctor. "I think I already mentioned that we thought it might have been put in his tea, at school."

"I know," said Schilling. "I actually wanted to talk to you separately, without alarming Charlie, unduly." The artificially upbeat tone was gone and his demeanor was sober. "I don't want to discourage him, because he is going to need his will to fight this. He is actually very ill; I'm amazed he was still on his feet. Although our tests couldn't identify a poison, most of us believe it was or may still be there, because something is attacking his pancreas." He looked at Don directly. "Your father said you were told he had two to three weeks, and you now think it has been about a week and a half since he ingested the substance. That is probably about right – I would give him about another week if he continues on this course. The problem is, we really need to know how to reverse this soon, or the damage to his pancreas will be so severe that even if we find the antidote or a treatment, he will be past the point where treatment will do him any good. So he really doesn't have another week, as far as waiting for a treatment goes."

Don felt his throat tighten. "How long?" The words came out as a rasp, and at Schilling's hesitation he cleared his throat and tried to clarify his question. "When would we need the antidote?"

"We need to run some more tests, but within the next day; two at the most, is our consensus," said Schilling. "Beyond that…," he let the words trail off.

Dead silence greeted his statement. Don couldn't speak; all he could think of was that they were still so far from finding Donna Bainbridge. It had been days already – how could they hope to find her by tomorrow? Because surely it had to be tomorrow - even if she knew what the substance was that they had given Charlie, it might take her time to concoct the antidote. And if it took more than a day to do that, it might already be too late.

His mind was reeling, and he barely noticed that his father had managed to collect himself enough to thank the doctor, and that Schilling was now heading off down the hallway. He blinked and looked at his father, and Alan looked back at him.

"I'm going back in with him," Alan said. He looked drained, older, and Don knew he fully understood that Charlie had very likely just been given a death sentence.

Don nodded. "I have to go," he got out. "I have work to do."

Alan laid a gentle hand on his arm. "I know," he said softly.

Don moved to go, but Alan tightened his grip, grasping his sleeve, and looked directly into his eyes. "It's not your fault, Donny. Do what you can, but you need to know it's not your fault."

Don smiled back, a bitter grimace, as Alan released his sleeve. No, he wasn't the one who had poisoned his brother, but he was the man who was responsible to fix it – and so far, he was failing, miserably. "Yeah," he said with a nod, more to placate his father than out of agreement, and he strode off down the hallway.

Out in the parking lot, he got into his SUV, slammed the door, and dialed Megan and put her on speaker. "Megan – how long before we can review that footage from the parking lot security cameras?"

"_I am already am_," she said. "_I'm taking a look at them now in the campus security office. I'm afraid it might be hard to ID him – the video is pretty grainy. Plus, he's wearing a ball cap, which is casting a shadow on his face, he's wearing dark glasses, and the lower part of his face is covered by beard. They're downloading me a copy, and I'm going to take it back to the office and run it past the facial recognition database, but it's gonna be tough_."

"Anything on the BOLO?"

"_Nothing yet_."

Don thanked her and hung up and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, staring off into the night. He could still see Charlie's face as he left his hospital room – and the look in his eyes. A plea for help, and it reminded him of the small boy on the playground so long ago, facing down bullies; and his hopeful expression as he caught sight of his older brother – his unwilling savior. He'd never relished the role as Charlie's protector, but he had never been able to refuse it, either. When he was young he resented being thrust into that situation, but now, resentment was the last thing he felt. Desperation was more like it. Charlie was counting on him, again, and he was out of ideas. He could feel anxiety spiraling inside, impatience making his skin crawl. There had to be a way to bring her in…

He sat straight up suddenly, his eyes fixed on nothing, but his mind whirling. There might be a way, but it could mean his career. He sat there for a moment, debating over whether he should call Merrick and tell him what he was thinking of doing, but decided against it. If Merrick gave him permission he would jeopardize his own career. And if he didn't agree and ordered Don not to proceed, then Don's career would certainly be over – because Don had every intention of proceeding, regardless of what Merrick might say. If he did this without telling his boss at least he wouldn't be defying a direct order; he could maybe even spin it as an unplanned error in judgment. He pulled out his cell phone and jabbed at it feverishly, looking up an address in his browser, then turned the keys in the ignition and threw the SUV into gear.

About a half hour later he pulled his SUV up to the curb in front of an apartment building on the northeast side of town. The apartment complex was a neat, if nondescript, collection of three-story buildings. He found the one he wanted – there was a buzzer but the outside door hadn't quite latched, so he opened it, went up the interior staircase, and knocked on the door of one of the third floor apartments.

There was the faint sound of movement behind the door; then the peephole darkened – he was being observed. The door swung open almost immediately and the apartment owner blinked at him in surprise.

"Wallenstein," said Don. "I've got another exclusive for you."

* * *

><p>End, Chapter 17<p> 


	18. Chapter 18

Camouflage

Chapter 18

The story broke around four a.m. on the paper's website Wednesday morning, and was out in the morning papers. Don had already read the website version, and grabbed a copy of the paper and read it in his SUV that morning before starting it up for the drive to the office. Wallenstein's paper, the L.A. Herald, was affiliated with the local television news for one of the major networks, and the station manager had met with Don, along with Wallenstein and his editor, in Wallenstein's apartment last night. In addition to the story in the paper, the news station was arranging for one of their reporters and a cameraman to be waiting for Don outside the FBI building when he got to the office that morning. Although their request for a quick interview on the sidewalk would look impromptu, both sides knew it was planned.

He sat in the driver's seat and scanned the article, which was splashed across the front page with a big picture of Charlie – a professional head shot no doubt pulled from the newspaper archives. "_Noted Professor Victim of Poisoning_", it was titled, and went on to make the assertion that the missing Donna Bainbridge alone could provide the antidote. It cited information from an anonymous source; so far, Don could deny his involvement. In a few moments, however, there would be no deniability. He would be making a statement that would go live at least on local television, and he knew the network had been talking with their national office about broadcasting live, nationally. He had left Wallenstein's apartment last evening before he'd heard whether they'd gotten approval or not; they were still on the phone with their headquarters. As far as he was concerned, the more coverage they gave it and the bigger the story, the better. It would have a better chance of reaching Donna Bainbridge, wherever she was.

He drove to the office, and as he stepped out of his SUV and walked through the parking garage, he checked in via his cell phone one last time with David Sinclair, to see if there were any further breaks in the case – hoping for one last chance to abort before he committed career suicide. David informed him that Megan's search on the facial recognition database had been fruitless, and that no, there were no new leads on Bainbridge. So Don, instead of taking the elevator, headed for the walkway.

The walkway outside the building spanned the street below, and Don sometimes used it to walk to a coffee shop on the other side of the street before work in the morning, so although it was not technically on the way to his office, it wasn't unusual for him to be there first thing in the morning. Pedestrians on the walkway had a good view of the building that housed the FBI headquarters, a modern high rise – a striking backdrop for a news story.

He encountered the reporters about halfway across the walkway. Susan St. George led the group – she was a gorgeous blonde, sharp, ambitious, and one of the anchors of the evening news – the station was pulling out one of their big guns, apparently. She was accompanied by not one, but three cameramen bristling with equipment, and also by script and makeup technicians. Don hoped that the substantial crew meant they had gotten approval to broadcast nationally. He mentally breathed a 'thank you' to Wallenstein.

Across the bridge he could see another group, and caught a glimpse of a CNN logo on a jacket. Susan was there to get an exclusive for her network – but apparently CNN had seen the newspaper story on the internet that morning, and had arrived to do a story of their own. They were probably just there for a background shot of the building; they couldn't have known Don was going to show up in person, but when they saw the local crew hustling across the walkway, someone pointed, and the CNN crew all turned and stared, and then started a dash across the walkway toward Don.

Susan saw them coming and frowned. "Hurry," she said to her camera operators, "roll, roll!" And then she wiped the frown from her face and spoke into the mike. "As you just heard me report, the case of the missing scientist, Donna Bainbridge, has taken a macabre and very grave turn. Standing in front of me is FBI Special Agent in Charge, Don Eppes. Agent, can you update us on the search for Donna Bainbridge?"

As agreed upon, Don made an attempt at putting her off – as he was required to do by the Bureau. He was also stalling just a bit. True, he had agreed to an exclusive – but it wouldn't be his fault if the CNN guys muscled in on the action – and it would mean more coverage, nationally for certain, if they ran the story. "I'm sorry," he said. "I can't comment on an ongoing investigation."

The CNN people were there now bustling in with their equipment, but Susan was at Don's side, and she had no intention of giving ground. "Not even if Bainbridge could save your brother's life?" Don paused, as if taken aback at her inside knowledge, and she pressed, "We have information that your brother has been intentionally poisoned, and is fighting for his life at UCLA Medical Center. Our source tells us that the poison cannot be identified, but there is a belief that Donna Bainbridge might know what it is. Can you confirm that?"

Don's heart was thumping, and he swallowed. This was it – he was undoubtedly about to throw his career away, but by God, if it could bring in Donna Bainbridge, it was worth it.

He didn't realize that the pause made him look surprised, and that his pain and weariness was evident in his face, but Susan noted it all, with satisfaction. This was going over as very unplanned; very raw, very real. A story like this could vault her onto the national news scene. She pushed the microphone a little closer to Don's face as a CNN reporter thrust a microphone forward as well. She didn't completely mind that the CNN crew was there, because she was obviously leading the interview, and they were letting her do it – and she would show on their broadcast, as well as her own station's programming. They all could sense that Don Eppes was weighing a response, fighting emotion, and wisely, the CNN reporter, a veteran, didn't push. Better to let a rival get a juicy response than to risk annoying the agent and shutting him down completely.

"Agent?" St. George prompted, gently.

Don took a breath, and looked at her. "It is true that my brother is in UCLA Medical Center. He was admitted last night, and we believe he was poisoned about a week and a half ago by an unknown substance, that is somehow tied to what Donna Bainbridge and her colleague were researching." He paused, then turned and looked directly into the camera, letting the raw pain show on his face. "Donna Bainbridge, if you are out there, I am asking that you please contact me as soon as possible. Call the L.A. FBI offices, and you will be directed right to me. We do not consider you a suspect, and we need your help. We can bring you in safely." Abruptly, he stopped, appearing to reign himself in from his impassioned plea, and said gruffly, "I have no further comments."

Then he pushed through the throng that had gathered and headed back toward the office building. Susan looked gravely into the camera, her somber expression belying her elation. "We've just heard from Don Eppes, SAC of the local FBI office, commenting on an exclusive story that broke in the L.A. Herald, our affiliate newspaper, this morning. We will continue to follow this story, and update you on any developments."

She lowered the mike, and her cameraman shut off his camera. The CNN cameras kept rolling however, and the CNN reporter stepped up with his mike. "Susan, Roger Bleek from CNN. Can you comment on the source of your story?"

She smiled briefly, apologetically, and shook her head. "I'm sorry, Roger, but even I don't know." The truth was; she didn't know for certain. She assumed the source was Don Eppes, because her director had told her how to script the interview with him – which led her to assume that Eppes was expecting a script. Of course, that might or might not mean he was the original source of the story – he might just be trying to capitalize on the news story that broke on the website earlier. So she wasn't lying, not really, when she said she didn't know. "The source is confidential, and apparently approached Mark Wallenstein of the L.A. Herald last evening. Mark broke the story around four a.m., but didn't reveal his source. That's all I can tell you."

She deferred a couple more questions, and walked back to the news van with a swing in her step. Don Eppes had played his role like a champ; he was a story in himself – good-looking, well-spoken – and the tortured look in his eyes and the undercurrent of emotion in his plea to the camera had come across well, she knew, and she had orchestrated it deftly. It had gone perfectly – for her, at least. She had gotten what she wanted, and more, out of the encounter. She wondered if Don Eppes would be as fortunate. She hoped he would.

Don made it as far the parking lot elevator before his phone rang. He glanced at the number, hit answer, said, "Eppes," and punched the 'up' button on the elevator panel.

Merrick's voice grated into his ear. "Get up to my office. _Now_."

* * *

><p>P. J. Murciano sat slumped in his chair, one arm on the armrest, the knuckle of his forefinger absently grazing his lower lip as he watched the scene on the television in his office at the stadium.<p>

"Great," grumbled Frank Sczechnewski, as he scowled at the 'breaking news' banner across the screen. "So much for keeping this to himself. He's apparently not going to give us Bainbridge – if he ever finds her. You heard what that Reeves agent said on the feed from his SUV last night, when he asked her about the BOLO – nothing yet. They have a BOLO out for her car, and they haven't found it yet."

Murciano seemed oddly unperturbed. He lowered his hand, resting his arm on the armchair. "Not necessarily. He may still be planning something – however, the chances are better that he gives her to us inadvertently, rather than directly. We probably _are_ wasting time trying to apply pressure on him, but if you read between the lines of that news clip, he's getting desperate. If things get bad enough with his brother, he may still want to deal. However, there's something else we can do – if they find her, we can be proactive and try to beat them to her location. We need to be on the surveillance feed like glue, listening in on the bug in his SUV – hell, we need to keep his SUV in sight at all times – if she sees that story and calls him, it will probably be soon, and he's going to move quickly, most likely with a team of people. I need you to go get Rocky and stake out the FBI building – watch for Eppes, or for any members of his team who appear to leave in a hurry. I'll stay here and listen for any feed from the bug in his SUV, and call you if I get anything. If we hear where she is, maybe you can try to get there before them. You also need to be prepared to take her out even if they get there before us. That means taking out everyone in the vehicle with her, if necessary. Tell Rocky – he'll make sure you have the stuff the two of you will need for that."

Frank looked at him, suddenly silent. He was a football trainer, for God's sake – he hadn't planned on becoming a paid assassin. It was bad enough that he'd been present when Rocky shot Ansel Stevenson and that he'd dumped poison in the professor's tea.

Murciano scowled. "Don't look at me that way. You're in this deep – you've got as much blood on your hands as I do. We have no choice. Rocky will do the dirty work – you drive, he'll take care of the rest. He knows what he's doing. Now go wake him up – you both have work to do. Go to the garage near the insurance agency and get a car – the van is out getting painted, and we should probably keep it out of sight anyway, but there's a Taurus there that should work. I'm going to try to bring in some additional help."

* * *

><p>Don knocked softly, stepped into Merrick's office, and closed the door. Merrick looked at him sharply from behind his desk and pointedly turned the volume down on the television at the corner of his office. Don could see an image of himself on the screen, talking to Susan St. George – the interview had apparently been broadcast live, and the station was already re-running it. He could see a copy of the Herald on Merrick's desk. Charlie's picture gazed up at him from the front page. Merrick snapped, "What were you thinking?"<p>

Don shrugged, trying to look miserable. He succeeded; it wasn't difficult. "I wasn't. I'm sorry – it just came out."

Merrick studied him. Don Eppes was one of the best agents he'd ever worked with – but he was sometimes impulsive, and could be damned stubborn. "You know the regulations concerning releasing information to the press. That interview was unapproved, and went out on national news. Headquarters will need to review this and assess whether there will be punishment – the decision will be made at a level above me, unfortunately. I will do what I can, but you have put yourself in a position where you could be facing severe penalties – up to the loss of your job – and at least removal from this case. Surely you understand that?"

Don nodded. "I'm sorry." He looked tired and discouraged; however there was a determined set to his jaw that told Merrick that he did understand, but given the same set of circumstances, he would have done it again.

Merrick sighed. "Okay, then, consider yourself admonished. I will report this conversation to my superiors, and tell them you apologized for your lapse in judgment. I am assuming you had nothing to do with the newspaper article. Now that that's over, between you and I – that was rather brilliant."

Don's head came up in surprise, and Merrick held up a hand. "I'm not saying that you planned it, and if you did, I don't want to know. But considering the circumstances, you did the only thing you could do. Of course, it will only work if Bainbridge is innocent, and if she has a conscience."

Don nodded. "I'm certain of the first – I think she's innocent, but she's scared. We're certain she witnessed Dr. Stevenson's murder in the lab that night. The question is; will her conscience overcome her fear?"

Merrick nodded, and his voice softened. "How's Charlie?"

Don shook his head, looked away; then looked back at him. "Not good. The doctors said he needs the antidote today or tomorrow – after that it won't do him any good – there will have been too much damage…," his throat constricted, and he looked away again.

Merrick's heart sank. He'd had no idea it was that bad – no wonder Don had made such a desperate move. He sighed. "I plan to be hard to reach today – in case the guys from Washington call. I'll send them a report and put as good of a spin on this as possible, but then I will be out of communication for a while. They can't order me to issue discipline if they can't reach me. I will try to put them off as long as I can." He nodded. "That is all. Good luck."

"Thank you," said Don softly, and he stepped out and closed the door behind him.

Downstairs, he found his team in the conference room, huddled around the television, flipping back and forth between the local news channel and CNN, both of which were carrying Don's interview as a breaking news story. Several other agents were in the room also, but they scattered as Don entered. Colby, Megan, and David turned, all looking somber – but not surprised. Colby gave Don an approving nod. "Good call, boss. I would have done the same thing."

Megan nodded her agreement. "You were up with Merrick?"

Don nodded. "I'll probably catch some heat for this – Merrick said the decision will be made above his head. If they yank me – either from my job or from this case – I'll need you guys to pick this up. We only have today. The doctors said Charlie needs the antidote today or tomorrow at the latest – which means we need to bring in Bainbridge today. The sooner, the better."

They all looked a bit stunned by that news. David recovered first, and rose from his half-sitting position on a conference room table. "I'm gonna go talk to Marcy and get her some help answering phones. The public number for the office routes to her, and we'll probably get some newshounds or crackpots calling in – we'll need to make sure that main line isn't bogged down. We'll have her and her assistants route all calls that aren't reporters through us. We'll vet them, and if we get any that sound promising, we'll route them to you."

Don nodded, wearily. "Okay – yeah, that works." He looked at them for a moment, and they looked back, the split second of silence conveying more than words could. Then they headed for their desks.

* * *

><p>Charlie swallowed, or attempted to as his fingers flew over the keys of his laptop, and tried to push the pain to the back of his mind. His mouth was dry in spite of the IV that delivered fluids to his body; he wasn't allowed to drink. An occasional small ice chip was all that he was allowed.<p>

The pain was more of an issue; it was increasing; it had spread from his front left side to the back, and had grown from a dull ache to something more intense. Periodically he experienced the sharp, almost debilitating waves of pain that had started the day before; when that happened, he had to stop typing and just focus on breathing and fighting through the pain. He had been offered morphine but had refused; he needed to stay sharp enough to concentrate. He had accepted the oxygen cannula; breathing was becoming a bit more difficult, and his brain needed oxygen to function at its best.

He knew he was in a race against time; he suspected his condition was worse than what his father, who was constantly at his side, let on. Alan sat quietly, reading; the television in the room was on, but the sound was muted – his father understood the need for his son to concentrate. Charlie was frantically working, pulling more data from the California Department of Transportation on the traffic patterns the day that Donna Bainbridge had fled. He also was searching for hard data in articles from law enforcement agencies concerning the behavior of fleeing criminals, or other people trying to disappear, and pull that into the model he was refining, as well. He was fairly certain Bainbridge had gone north on either Interstate 5 or state route 99; the first question was – how far?

Most research that described the behavior of people who fled in an automobile stipulated that they found initial hiding places within two to ten hours from their starting points. The more urgent the need to get off the road and hide, the sooner they stopped. Some would then take other methods of transportation in an attempt to gain more distance, but Charlie calculated that the probability of Donna Bainbridge trying that was low. She wasn't a career criminal; it was unlikely she would know how to go about breaking into or hot-wiring another car, so she would be limited to public transportation or a legitimate car rental – which could leave a trail. Since there had been no sign of such a trail, or of any sightings at all, it wasn't likely that she had done that. So probability said she had used her own car to get to a hiding place and had stopped there, and was most likely between Santa Clarita and San Francisco somewhere. Her need to get off the road was fairly urgent, so she probably would not have risked driving farther than that. Still, it was a sizable area to search, and the difficulty was compounded by the fact that there were two main highways she could have taken; either I-5, or Route 99. Which one?

He was pondering that puzzle and examining CDOT data for both highways, when his father spoke from the doorway. He had left his chair and stepped over to the door; Charlie hadn't even noticed. "Charlie, you have visitors," said Alan, gently. "I'm heading downstairs for a coffee, son; I'll be back in a bit."

He moved back to allow Larry Fleinhardt and Amita Ramanujan to enter, then quietly stepped out as they approached the bed. Charlie leaned back against his pillow, a smile rising to his lips in spite of the pain. "Hi," he said to both of them, his gaze lingering on Amita's face.

The conversation that followed was trivial compared to the undercurrent of emotions in the room; even Charlie, admittedly no social wizard, could pick them up. It was apparent that his friends both knew what Alan knew and were trying hard not to say it, and Charlie could only surmise that they were trying to shield him from the facts so he wouldn't quit fighting. That meant his condition was bad, probably worse than what he'd been told. Amita and Larry's encouragements and caring words were both comforting in their content, and terrifying in what they omitted. The truth, apparently, was too awful to be spoken aloud. He played the game, however, went along with the pretense, although a lump was growing in his throat. Somehow, the physical pain seemed to intensify as if to affirm his suspicions, but in spite of the growing agony, he didn't want the visit to end. The number of times he would get to see them had suddenly become finite – perhaps no more than a handful, if they didn't find Bainbridge.

Finally, Larry said his good-bye – a too-nonchalant, 'see you later, Charles,' and left the room; and Charlie and Amita stared at each other for a moment.

"Charlie -," Amita began, then stopped. She took a breath and stepped forward and bent over as if to whisper something, but to Charlie's shock, she bent lower and kissed him on the lips, oxygen cannula notwithstanding – a gentle, lingering kiss. He closed his eyes in bliss and surprise, then opened them as her fingers softly traced the dark stubble on his cheek. She straightened, blushing a bit, but her fingers trailed through his curls before her hand dropped to squeeze his, and although she was smiling, he could see tears glimmering in her eyes. She bravely blinked them away, and said firmly, "Hurry and get well – I'm counting on you." She motioned to Charlie's computer and cleared her throat, speaking more briskly to try to tamp down the emotion. "Larry and I are running probabilities also, although I don't think we're quite as far along as you are. We can come back later and compare, okay?"

"I'd like that," said Charlie, his voice husky, and she smiled again, and left the room.

He stared after her, his heart still pounding from the unexpected kiss, wondering if it was the beginning of something between them – or a pensive good-bye.

His gaze trailed away from the vacant doorway, and an image on the silently running television screen caught his eye – his brother, standing in the middle of a news crew. Charlie gave an exclamation, and fumbled for the remote and turned up the volume. Susan St. George from the local news was speaking, and he got the sound up just in time to hear her say, "…Special Agent in Charge, Don Eppes. Agent, can you update us on the search for Donna Bainbridge?"

He had received more than one lecture from his brother about speaking to the press, on this case and others, so when he heard his brother's response, his heart sank. "Oh, no."

A noise at the doorway made him look up to see his father, and he pointed at the screen.

"I know," said Alan softly. "I saw it downstairs. They keep running that same clip – it's on several stations." His eyes were moist, but he was smiling with a sort of wistful pride.

Charlie felt a rush of guilt. His brother might be jeopardizing his career – because of him. He shook his head vehemently. "He shouldn't have done that."

Alan disagreed. "He knows what he's doing, Charlie. The story broke in the paper this morning – supposedly from an unidentified source. He's covered his tracks – at least until he made this broadcast – but even that seemed very spontaneous. He can argue that the interview wasn't planned – and maybe it wasn't. Considering the circumstances, he did what he had to do."

Charlie fell silent, watching as the telecast cut away to an anchor at a desk. '_Considering the circumstances_…,' his father had said. Everyone seemed to know what the circumstances were but him – although after this morning, he had a solid idea of what the situation was – and it wasn't good.

He set his jaw, clenching his teeth against the pain, and went back to work, but the sensation of Amita's kiss still lingered, a warm memory.

* * *

><p>End, Chapter 18<p> 


	19. Chapter 19

Camouflage

_Author's note: Thank you for the many notes, both from faithful followers from the start, and from new readers. MGC, you are so right - the action is going to ramp up, and there is lots of it ahead. To all the reviewers - I read every single one of your comments, and they help shape the story. I have already made some changes based on your thoughts, and fixed a minor - well, not a plot hole, exactly, but an omission that might have been pretty glaring; thanks to you, readers. I have never written a story where the reviewers didn't help make it better - thank you._

Chapter 19

Wednesdays started with a workout in the weight room with Trainer Frank, and although Frank wasn't there that morning, the team started in on their routine without him. There were a couple of televisions mounted in the corners, although they were rarely used; Coach Ruby didn't like the team watching the sports commentators. "Bunch of meaningless drivel," he would s,ay. "Focus on our game plan." Trainer Frank usually enforced the no-television rule, but since he wasn't there that morning, one of the players turned on a set while they worked.

A local channel came on; it was apparently not running the usual programming in favor of a breaking news story. As the players recognized the FBI agent who had been investigating them and then a picture of his younger brother, they all started paying attention. Someone turned up the volume.

Deondre Wiseman frowned as he listened. The Warriors players had originally viewed the feds as enemies, but as his suspicions of Frank had mounted, Deondre's distrust of the agents had waned a bit. And the professor wasn't really one of the feds, anyway. Poisoned. Deondre wouldn't wish that on his worst enemy.

He sat there a moment, turning over the story in his head. He'd heard about the murder of the scientist and the disappearance of the woman, Bainbridge, a few days ago. He hadn't realized that Don Eppes was working that case, too. He imagined that this turn of events would pull them off the Warriors investigation entirely. If it weren't for the worry and the guilt over the substance he'd been taking all season, he'd be breathing a lot easier right now. _Magic_. The name they'd given it now made him grimace. At least they'd all stopped using it. God knew what was in it, or what long term effects it might have. It had to be something completely new and untested, considering they couldn't pick it up in a drug test. He hoisted two dumbbells, preparing to work his biceps.

The anchor on the screen was interviewing a doctor now. He was the news channel's medical specialist – he wasn't really working on the professor's case, but his words made Deondre's heart skip a beat.

"… and as we understand it," the TV doctor was saying, "the poison, the substance, apparently can't be picked up by any test, so the doctors are having a very hard time identifying it."

Deondre stopped in mid-lift, staring, his mind going over that last sentence. He'd assumed the cases weren't connected, but what if they were? Two different substances – one a performance enhancer and one a poison – and they both could not be detected in tests? He slowly lowered his weights and looked at Joey Cancetta. Joey was staring back at him with the same dumb look, and so were the others – Muhala, Wiseman, Reese and Worth. Rightly or wrongly, they had all come to the same conclusion. The substances could be connected somehow. Now the question was, what would they do about it? What _could_ they do about it – other than give themselves up – and even then, what would that do? It wasn't as if their admissions of guilt could save the professor – none of them had any idea of what the poison might be – or even if the substances were really connected.

Slowly, Mike Reese resumed his workout, and one by one, the rest of them followed. Deondre was last. He sat, staring at the weights resting on his lap, and then finally, took a breath and began to lift. Up, and down slowly. Up, and down slowly. Focus on what you can control, he told himself, unconsciously echoing a mantra that Coach Ruby had drilled into them. Focus on Sunday's game.

It worked for all of five minutes, and although he kept going through his workout, his motions were purely mechanical. He had to tell Agent Eppes, he decided. Even if the two cases weren't connected, that wasn't for him to decide – he didn't have all the facts that the feds did. A man's life was a stake now, and the FBI needed all the information they could get. He would talk to the others after practice; try to convince them to talk. They could plead their case; state that they had been lied to themselves, and throw themselves on the mercy of the commissioner. The commissioner might or might not decide in their favor, but they had reached a turning point. If there was a connection here, then this was no longer just about the outcome of a game, or even a season – it was about a young man's life.

* * *

><p>Don wearily closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. He was glued to his desk, still hoping for a call from Donna Bainbridge, but as the day wore on his hopes were dimming. Oh, he'd gotten plenty of phone calls all right – most of them from the press, and most of those hadn't made it all the way to him – they'd been diverted by Marcy, who was running the main office line like an old time switchboard, routing calls – or handled by Colby, David, or Megan. One call had been from his father, who was checking on progress. He reported that Charlie had been up most of the night on his computer, feverishly working on an algorithm that would yield the most likely locations for Donna Bainbridge to hide. "It's just like P vs. NP," Alan had said – a reference to Charlie's reaction when their mother had died. Don remembered; he could picture Charlie hunched over his laptop, off in another world of probabilities and equations; it was his escape, his morphine. Since that call, there had been no others of note – just reporters, hungry to get in on the story.<p>

At a few minutes past 2:30, that changed. Colby had picked up the phone, said a few words, hit the mute button, and called across to Don. There was no mistaking the hint of excitement in his voice. "Don – I think you should take this one."

Don stared at him for a split second, waiting for an explanation, then, when his phone rang – Colby transferring the call – he grabbed the receiver. "Don Eppes."

The voice on the other end was male, and initially, Don's heart sank. Not Bainbridge. "_Agent Eppes, this is Wilson Tavertine_."

At first Don couldn't place the name, but it was vaguely familiar, and Don's first thought was, "_The press_.' He scowled at Colby, but the scowl faded as Tavertine said, "From Tavertine and Bell, Attorneys at Law. I represent Donna Bainbridge."

Don froze for a moment, then managed, "Go on." Now he connected the name – Tavertine was a nationally recognized lawyer, some might say notorious, who had represented many of the rich and powerful. Colby was heading for Don's desk, and David and Megan, who had heard Colby, were rising from theirs, their eyes fixed on Don. They all clustered around him as Tavertine continued, but Don didn't hit the speaker button – there were too many other ears listening in. Not that the others in the office couldn't be trusted, but the temptation to drop a hint to the relentless reporters might prove too much, and he was taking no chances. He had to safeguard Bainbridge's whereabouts until they could get her to come in.

"_Donna Bainbridge contacted me a short while ago," _Tavertine said_. "She saw your piece on the news, and was quite moved by it. She is frightened for her life, but she has agreed to come in and help, with your assurances for her safety. I have her location – I would like to come to your office and travel to that location with you, if that is possible_."

"Where is she? And how do I know you're actually Tavertine?" Don asked. His heart was thudding; he could barely get the words out.

There was a hesitation on the other end, then Tavertine said, "_I realize that your line is secure, but I would rather divulge her whereabouts in person. That way I can prove my identity. This is no hoax. I also insist that I be allowed to accompany you, and to accompany her on the way back to L.A. from her location. I can be at your office in ten minutes_."

His office was only a few blocks from the FBI building, and true to his word, he appeared in minutes, alone. Don had him go right up to Merrick's office, and he and David, Megan and Colby waited for him there. Just prior to Tavertine's arrival, Merrick himself arrived from wherever he had been that day, dodging the calls from headquarters. He looked surprised to see them in his office. "What's going on?"

"You're just in time," said Don. "Wilson Tavertine is on his way up – he says he's representing Donna Bainbridge, and that she wants to turn herself in." As he spoke, there was a knock on the door, and Tavertine poked his head in, then pushed his way in past the heavy door.

"I wasn't sure I had the right office," he said.

It was unquestionably him – he was famous enough that they had all seen him more than once on the news. He was dressed down, however; he'd ditched his usual expensive designer suit for a sport coat, polo shirt and chinos – obviously his idea of clothing for a road trip. He was around forty, tanned and good-looking; he had an athletic build, with a haircut that undoubtedly cost well into three figures, and an immaculate manicure. He shook hands with all of them, and they sat.

"I'm not here to beat around the bush," he said, earnestly, leaning forward in his chair. "I know time is of the essence. I just want your assurance that I will be allowed to go with you when you go to retrieve her, and I will give you the information."

Merrick hedged. "It is highly irregular for the Bureau to provide transport in such a situation. Liability, you understand."

Tavertine shrugged. "I'll sign a waiver. If you don't allow me to go, then I don't give you the location; it's as simple as that."

Don shifted impatiently and growled, "And I'll charge you with impeding an investigation; it's as simple as that."

Tavertine stared at him a moment, then shrugged. "I didn't say I'd _never_ give it to you – but if I had to travel independently from you, I'd just wait until I got there before I called you, which could delay things. Of course, I'm sure you'd follow me and know where she was as soon as I got there, but at least you wouldn't get there before me." He spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "Look, all I'm trying to do is protect my client's interests. I know you said you think she's innocent, but I want to be there to represent her, that's all."

Don frowned at him. Tavertine was likely far too expensive for Donna Bainbridge – the lawyer had probably taken her case primarily for the publicity, and Don was sure his insistence on being there when she was found was because he wanted to be in on the ground floor of any action, and any press that followed.

Merrick sighed, and waved a hand. "All right; you have permission, as long as you sign a waiver."

"Where is she?" said Don. His voice was quiet, but his eyes were dark, and Tavertine smiled nervously.

"She's in Madera. It's north of here."

"I know where it is," said Don. He looked at Merrick and the others. "It's about three and a half hours up Route 99."

Merrick frowned. "Our chopper is out - they're using it down at the border for surveillance. I could arrange for a chopper with the CHP, but by the time we got that approved and ready, you could be there and on your way back."

Don shook his head. "No – I don't want to wait. If it's not an emergency situation like a big accident, it can take a whole day to get through the red tape and line up one of their choppers. We can drive – that's lower profile anyway. I'd like to take two vehicles. Megan and I can go in mine, and David and Colby can go in David's. Attorney Tavertine can ride with one of us. I don't want a big convoy – I don't want to attract attention."

"Agreed," said Merrick. "Although when you are an hour out from her location, I'd like to notify the Madera police, to have them on standby to assist, if necessary." He looked at all of them. "I am insisting on full gear, including a Kevlar vest for you," he looked at Tavertine. "You should know that this retrieval could be dangerous. I'll draw up the waiver while you're getting your gear."

Tavertine looked slightly taken aback. He looked down at his expensive sport coat, then looked up and shrugged, trying to hide the glint of excitement in his eyes. "Sure," he said, "whatever you say."

* * *

><p>Alan watched as Doctor Schilling spoke quietly with Charlie, and then, as Charlie dropped his head and began typing on his computer again, the doctor scanned through his chart. Finished, he turned to Alan and cocked his head, and Alan, interpreting the signal, quietly rose from his chair and followed Schilling out into the hallway.<p>

Schilling frowned, and inclined his head toward Charlie. "I'm concerned about him. He should be resting. The nurses tell me he's been on that computer all night."

Alan followed his gaze through the doorway, his heart contracting at the sight of Charlie from this new vantage point, the frail figure hunched over the keyboard, his face white and pinched with pain. "I know," he said softly. "I told him he needs rest, but when he's in this mode, there's no reasoning with him."

Schilling raised his eyebrows. "In this mode?"

Alan gestured helplessly, searching for words. "When Charlie is stressed, he immerses himself in math – the tougher the problem, the better. It's his way of dealing with the stress."

Schilling pursed his lips, studying Charlie thoughtfully. "Well, I'd rather he be resting, but if this keeps him motivated…," he broke off and looked at Alan. "The latest tests aren't good, and in spite of the oxygen cannula, his blood oxygen levels are falling. We will have to go to a mask soon, and eventually, we may need to intubate him and move him to the ICU. I just want you to be prepared. I saw the newscast this morning – is there any word?"

Alan swallowed, and shook his head. "None."

Schilling nodded resignedly, looked back at Charlie, and then back at Alan. "We're starting to see signs of kidney malfunction," he said quietly. "Let's hope they find her soon."

He nodded and walked away, and Alan suddenly felt a deep wave of despair, so intense it made his heart contract almost painfully. He closed his eyes, then opened them with a start as his cell phone buzzed. Don. He stabbed at the answer button, "Yes, Donny."

Don's voice was quiet, intense, but there was no mistaking the undercurrent of excitement in it. "_We found her, Dad. She's turning herself in. We're going to get her – but it's gonna take several hours to get her back here. Don't say anything to anyone until I tell you it's okay – including Charlie_."

Alan's heart leapt, almost as painfully as it had contracted the moment before. The cardiac roller coaster ride made him pause for air, before he managed, "Thank God. Why can't I tell him?"

There was a pause. "_I just don't want him to get his hopes up too much, before we talk to her. He's motivated right now, his mind is occupied; he's hopeful – I think it's better that way_. _Plus, this is confidential information – it can't get out, to anyone. It will be public knowledge in a few hours after we bring her back, but for just a few hours, I want you to keep this to yourself_."

Alan sighed, with a glance at Charlie. "All right, I understand."

"_Okay Dad_,_ I'll call you in a few hours_."

The call disconnected, and Alan trudged back into the room, trying not to look as though he hadn't just received earth-shaking news, and sat and picked up his magazine with unsteady hands. Charlie never looked up; the room was silent save for the clicking of computer keys.

* * *

><p>Donna Bainbridge disconnected the call and stared at her cell phone. Her lawyer, Wilson Tavertine, had just called her from the FBI offices, undisguised excitement in his voice. They had agreed to let him come with them to get her, he had told her; they were on their way. They would see her in about four hours, maybe less.<p>

She on sat the bed, motionless for a moment, conflicting emotions running through her. Fear, anxiety, relief – and most of all, guilt. She looked at the television screen; it was muted, but she could see the CNN broadcaster. They were featuring the Charlie Eppes story at the top of every half hour, and she could see a picture of Charlie on the screen behind the news anchor. She hadn't seen any television that day until shortly before two, when she turned it on to catch the news – she'd been on the computer instead, researching L.A. law firms, trying to figure out who could best represent her and finally deciding on Tavertine. She had watched the television idly for a few minutes until the headlines came up at 2:00, then had sat up on the hotel bed with an exclamation.

She had stared for a moment watching Don Eppes' plea, dumbfounded, and then the awful realization had hit her. She had a horrible feeling that she knew what the professor had been poisoned with – her eyes had strayed to the case of vials that she had taken with her from the lab, and although it was closed, she could imagine the two missing spots in the racks inside. "Oh, no," she had whispered, then she had shot to her feet, grabbed her cell phone and darted back to her laptop, calling the number on the screen. Seconds later she was talking to Wilson Tavertine himself, who – beyond her wildest hopes, had agreed to take the case pro bono.

Now, she was sitting here waiting for them to come and reality was sinking in, along with trepidation. It was a little nerve-wracking to finally come out of hiding, but she'd known this moment had to come. There really had been no sense in waiting. Now, she was wishing she'd called earlier. The news story had said that Charlie Eppes had been poisoned roughly a week ago – if that were true, he was running out of time. If only she hadn't been sitting here, like some kind of paranoid recluse… she groaned, and shook herself. She had less than four hours. She needed to pack, and she wanted to go through her files. Her boxes would go in the trunk but she wanted to review some of the material in the car while she rode. She needed to narrow down the material to the most vital records of their research, and the information most helpful for Charlie Eppes, in one portable package. She had to sort through a lot of information, and there wasn't much time.

* * *

><p>Frank and Rocky both started as Frank's phone trilled; he'd put it on a high pitched ring tone, on loud, so he'd be sure to hear it. In the silent, stuffy car, the noise almost knocked them both out of their car seats.<p>

It had been a long, tortuous day, sitting in the car in a small unmanned pay parking lot down a block and across from the FBI building, where they had a view of the vehicles coming in and out of the garage. The tedium had numbed them almost into a trance, and when the phone rang, they looked a little wildly at each other before Frank stabbed the answer button, and then, the speaker button. Murciano's voice floated out from the phone, grating and tinny-sounding.

"_They found her_," he said. "_Eppes just called his father from his SUV, and the bug picked it up. He and someone else just got in the vehicle – I could hear the doors slam, and then he got on the phone with his dad. He'll be coming down out of the garage any minute now; be watching_."

"Where is she?" said Frank, as Rocky started the car.

"_They didn't say. You'll have to follow them – hold on – he's talking again_." There was a pause, and Frank and Rocky could hear muffled voices coming over the feed in Murciano's office. Their phone had a recording device in it and it was going into the recording device along with feed from Eppes' SUV; they had taken that precaution in case something signifcant happened when Murciano was not there to listen. However, they couldn't hear on their end unless Murciano spoke directly into his phone, and they couldn't hear what was said in Eppes' vehicle - they needed Murciano to feed them the information. He got on the phone again, just as Eppes' SUV appeared at the entrance to the garage. Eppes was driving; they could see the woman agent, Reeves, in the passenger seat, wearing a dark ball cap with 'FBI' emblazoned on it. They were both wearing what looked like dark vests.

"_There's another car with him – Eppes was just talking to them on the cell phone. It sounds like they're taking the 110 north up to Interstate 5 to start with, but he didn't say exactly where she was. Just that it was going to take a few hours to get her back. And they're obviously headed north. You'll have to follow them. I'll keep listening in – if you stay close and if I hear exactly where she is, maybe you can pass them up and get there first_."

As Murciano spoke, they saw the second vehicle, a sedan, pull out from the garage behind the SUV; they could see the other two agents, Granger and Sinclair, in the front seats, and glimpsed another man who they didn't recognize in the back, all similarly attired in the dark vests. Rocky pulled forward out of the lot and into traffic, a few cars back.

"Okay," said Frank into the phone. "We're on it. We see 'em, and we pulled out behind 'em. Call us back if you hear anything more."

"_Don't screw this up_."

"We won't," said Frank. Murciano grunted a response, and disconnected the call. Frank looked at Rocky. "Don't lose 'em."

"I won't," said Rocky confidently. "They're going up the 110 to I-5 – we know that already, so I can afford to keep a few cars back. Relax – this is my specialty. I've done this many a time, and never got made."

"The thing is, now they're all involved – there's five of them and they're all gonna be there with her. What do we do when we find her?" mused Frank.

Rocky's eyes were dark. "Whatever it takes. We have enough firepower in the car to take out five cars full of agents."

Frank looked at him, then looked back out the windshield. A few cars up, Sinclair's sedan turned the corner, heading for the ramp for Highway 110.

* * *

><p>End Chapter 19<p> 


	20. Chapter 20

Camouflage

Chapter 20

The ride up to Madera was fast and uneventful, but seemed maddeningly slow. Don was very familiar with the route; for a short time after high school, he'd lived in Stockton and played minor league baseball for the Stockton Rangers. He'd traveled this route back and forth to home in Pasadena more than once in those days. Interstate 5 led into Route 99 just before Bakersfield, then there was Delano, Tulare, Fresno – with a host of other small towns in between. After Fresno was Madera, then Modesto and Stockton. Although Route 99 was the more direct route from L.A. to Madera, in retrospect it probably would have been better to take I-5 – it was freeway, without all of the small towns dotting its length, with their multiple exits. Although the I-5 route was longer, it was probably faster, and he would use it coming back, he decided. He could see now why Route 99 appealed to someone trying to flee, however – those multiple exits provided multiple ways to lose a tail. He would have to tell Charlie about the multiple exits, to factor that into his algorithm for future cases…

His idle train of thought came to an abrupt halt as he remembered the situation; why he was here to begin with. There might well be no future cases, if Charlie didn't survive this one. No, he _will_ survive, Don told himself resolutely, he had to – but there will be no future cases. He hadn't been sure he wanted to extend Charlie's contract before this had happened – now he was certain. If Charlie made it through this, there was no way he was consulting, ever again – at least not for the FBI. Whether or not he kept his own job, Don would make sure that Charlie would land, safe and sound, firmly back in academia, where he belonged. And that was the Cal Sci campus - where he should be right now, teaching and researching and discovering the next new mathematical concept, or advancing research in a related field, like physics. Not lying, waiting for death, in a hospital bed…

"There's a car back there – it's been there a while," said Megan, who was texting with Colby. "Colby said it might just be coincidence, but a gray Taurus has been behind them since we left L.A. He says it looks like there are at least two people in it. It's too far back to see who is in it, or catch a license plate, but…,"

"Let's get off at the next exit," said Don. "See if it hangs with us." He glanced at the odometer. "We're about 100 miles out. We'll pull off, get some gas, and get back on – let Colby know."

* * *

><p>The cell phone shrilled, and Rocky growled, "Change the ring tone on that damn thing."<p>

Frank gave him a look and answered, putting the phone on speaker. "Yeah."

Murciano's voice floated out into the car. "_They made you_."

Rocky scowled. "What? I'm like, five cars back."

"_Think about it_," Murciano growled. "_They're on a long road trip, with nothing much to do but watch the highway. They'll pick up things that they ordinarily wouldn't. I need to know exactly where you are right now_."

Frank looked at the GPS. "We're coming up on Delano. Why?"

There was a silence, the click of computer keyboard keys, then an exultant growl from Murciano. "_Madera. They're going to Madera. I heard Eppes say they had about 100 miles to go. They're getting off in Delano to see if you follow them. Keep going when they get off. You know where they're going now – you don't have to follow. Get up by Madera somewhere and watch for them. Madera isn't that big – you can pick a spot on the outskirts of town, and wait for them to come in – then follow them to wherever she is._"

"If it isn't that big, maybe we should poke around – see if we can find her first," said Rocky.

"_Maybe_," said Murciano. "_I'll look it up on the computer – see how many hotels there are. You won't have a lot of time. Even if you move fast, they'll be right behind you. And you can't afford to go too much over the speed limit; you don't need to get pulled over. If there are more than three hotels there, you're better off following them than running around trying to find her_. _ It's possible, too, that she knows someone in town – maybe she's not staying at a hotel at all. _ _If you guess wrong, you'll lose them_."

"Okay," said Frank. "Let us know what you find. We'll plan on waiting for them up by Madera and following them in unless you come up with a specific location."

A few miles later, Sinclair's black sedan pulled off the highway at one of the Delano exits. Rocky kept going, whizzing past the exit. As Frank looked out his window and down past the exit ramp, he saw Sinclair's sedan pull up next to Eppes' SUV at a gas station. Eppes was already out, standing next to his vehicle and scanning the highway. He was too far away to get a good look, and the Taurus windows were tinted, but still Frank turned his face away and pulled his ball cap lower over his face as they passed, grateful for his sunglasses. It was probably just an impression, but he felt as though he and Eppes had locked eyes, just before he turned away.

* * *

><p>"Charlie," said Alan gently. "You need to stop for a bit. They are coming in to give you an oxygen mask."<p>

"Wha-?" Charlie looked up from his computer; he looked exhausted, confused. His cracked lips were parted; his breath was coming in short pants. His face was pale, with an almost grayish hue. He blinked, trying to pull his mind out of his equations and orient himself, then said, "She's either in Madera or Tulare. Slightly higher probability that it's Madera. Maybe you can tell Don." He'd no sooner managed to get that out, when the nurse bustled in followed by a technician. In short order, they had removed the cannula and replaced it with an oxygen mask. Above it, Charlie's expressive dark eyes looked at Alan, filled with anxiety, and slightly bewildered.

His head drooped as if pulled down by the weight of the mask, and he looked down at the keyboard again, and began pecking at the keys. The keystrokes were coming more slowly now; with more pauses and more fumbling. He was obviously in pain, but refused to rest.

Alan watched him, his heart breaking. He was second-guessing his promise to Don – his promise to not tell Charlie they had found Bainbridge. Maybe if Charlie knew, he would stop working and get some much-needed sleep.

He stepped out into the hallway, pulled out his cell phone, and looked down at it, hesitating. The one thing he tried to avoid doing was to call Don when he was out in the field. As he paused he looked up, and he realized a young man was standing in front of him; he had apparently been standing outside Charlie's room. He was very tall, good-looking, African-American, and although his clothes were casual, they looked expensive. He was holding a gift bag. He stared at Alan, obviously a bit uncomfortable, and Alan stared back. "Can I help you?"

"I – uh, my name's Deondre Wiseman," the young man stammered, and Alan's eyebrows rose. "I play for the Warriors. We heard about Professor Eppes, and well, we all feel kind of bad, you know – so anyway, I brought this for him." He thrust out the bag, and as Alan took it he glanced inside. It contained a football, and Alan could see several signatures on it.

The gesture was touching, and Alan smiled at the young man. "I'm Charlie's father, Alan. I'm sure he'll be excited to get this," he said. "Would you like to come in and give it to him?"

Wiseman looked nervously through the doorway. "No, that's okay; it looks like he's resting." Alan turned in surprise; sure enough, it looked like Charlie had finally succumbed to exhaustion, and was lying back on his pillows, his eyes closed. Alan turned back to Wiseman, who was glancing up and down the hallway as if looking for someone. Wiseman licked his lips. "Is his brother around?"

Alan felt the first hint of suspicion, but kept the smile on his face firmly fixed. Why was the young man so nervous – and why would he show up with a gift and not give it in person – and why was he wondering where Don was? Was this a fishing expedition – was he looking for information? Was he up to something? Granted, he was a star football player, but the team_ had _been under investigation… "No, he's working. Can I pass a message to him?"

Wiseman shook his head, forcing a smile. "No, that's okay." He held out his hand; it was huge, and nearly swallowed Alan's hand as they shook. The young man's handclasp was firm, but surprisingly gentle. "Maybe I'll talk to him later. Tell the professor the Warriors are rooting for him."

"I will," said Alan, smiling. "Thank you." He watched as Wiseman loped off down the hall, a puzzled frown replacing his smile.

It was a strange encounter; he would have to tell Don about it. He looked down at his phone, and then at Charlie, who finally appeared to be fast asleep. No need to make the call any longer; Charlie was resting. It was best not to take the risk of interrupting Don, even though he was still probably en route. Alan pocketed his phone and went back in the room, and peered in the bag at the football. It was a nice one, official NFL issue with a red and black Warriors logo and some team signatures. It looked like a standard replica with reproduced signatures, but a few players – six, Alan counted – had bothered to re-sign their names in red ink. Maybe they were the players who had actually gotten the ball for him. Alan sighed, set the bag aside, and pulled the lever on the reclining chair – thank God for a comfortable chair, at least. It was time for a nap, himself.

* * *

><p>Daylight was fading as the agents and Tavertine pulled off of Route 99 and into Madera. The remaining 100 miles had been uneventful – the gray Taurus had sped past them at Delano, and hadn't been seen again. There was no sign of anyone else following them for the remainder of the journey, but still, Colby was watchful as they approached town. It was getting harder to see, however; even though the sun had not quite set, headlights were coming on; their brightness blotted out the details of the vehicles.<p>

They pulled into Sunset Suites, fittingly, as the sun dipped below the horizon. It was a small old style motel on the edge of town, one story, L-shaped, set among the trees. It was surrounded by a quiet, lower middle-class neighborhood that had crept up around it over the years. The road that ran past it was a main thoroughfare, but it too was quiet at this time of night. About a block down on one corner was a gas station, and on the corner in the other direction was a small abandoned shop that apparently used to house a deli. Directly across the street was a small park, dark and tree-shrouded. They parked their cars in the nearly empty front lot, and as Colby stepped out of David's car, he glanced down the block toward the gas station. A car slid by the gas station on the side-street and disappeared on the other side; it was hard to tell in the gloom, but Colby could have sworn it was a gray Taurus.

They gathered in the lot, and he spoke quietly. "I think I just saw that gray Taurus again."

Don looked at him sharply. "Where?"

Colby inclined his head toward the gas station, a block away. "Down one block – it just cruised past on that side street. Could be a coincidence."

Don frowned, staring down the street. "I don't like coincidences." He stood thinking, and looked at Megan, then at the group. "Let's stand out here a minute. Megan, step forward, so they'll be sure to see you. Keep your hat on." Megan looked at him strangely, but stepped forward so she was standing on the outside of the group, visible from the cross street, and adjusted the brim on her ball cap.

To Colby they seemed like sitting ducks; they were well illuminated in the yellow light coming from the lamps outside each motel unit door. They stood there for a minute or two, then David said quietly, "Down at the other end of the street, by that little shop. Don't turn and look. It's going by again, down on the other block."

Colby didn't turn his head, but he caught it out of the corner of his eye – the Taurus had apparently circled the block, and had slid by on the other side street in the opposite direction, cruising silently through the gathering darkness like a big gray shark. It was circling them, and he would bet his next paycheck it would come around again.

"I think they saw us," David said.

"Good," said Don grimly. "That's what I wanted. Here's what we'll do. Colby and David, you stay outside and keep watch; make sure they don't launch an attack. It could just be press, but make sure you've got cover. The rest of us will go inside. We have an extra vest for Donna – we'll have her put her hair up, like Megan's, have her put on the vest and Megan's hat. Megan, you let your hair down, keep your head down and hide your face as much as possible – maybe she'll have some kind of jacket you can wear so if they catch a brief glimpse, you'll look like her – or least like someone other than yourself. When we come out, we'll get right in the cars – Donna will go with me. She'll take Megan's place in the front passenger seat; Megan, you'll go with Colby and David and Tavertine."

Megan nodded, her green eyes glinting. "We'll make her look as much like me as possible, and put her in the seat I sat in on the way up, to confuse them as to which car she's in."

Tavertine's eyes were wide, and he grinned. "Smart move!" Then he frowned and looked at Don. "Wait a minute – I should ride in the car with you and Donna. She's my client."

Don gave him a steely-eyed glare. "When we have her safe in L.A., you can represent her all you want. Until then, I call the shots. I don't want to make too many switches other than Megan and Donna – I want them to pick up on that one." He looked at the others. "I want to go back down to L.A. on Interstate 5 – it's a longer route, but I think it will be faster because it doesn't run through all the small towns, and there are less exits; less chance for someone coming up at us off an exit ramp. We can put on the lights and ratchet up the speed all the way down to Bakersfield. When we pull out, we'll head back south like we're going to get back on Route 99, but instead of getting on the highway, we'll head west and shoot over to I-5, and take that to L.A. We might shake them in the process. If there is trouble, David, I want you to split off and draw them off. We'll try to load up the cars when they're cruising by so they can see who gets in each of them; they should believe that Bainbridge is in your vehicle if we do this right, so they should follow you." David nodded.

Tavertine was starting to look uncomfortable. "Do you really think it's that dangerous?"

Don shook his head. "I don't know. They're probably reporters – several crews have been staking out the FBI building all day. They might not be dangerous at all – but I don't want to take chances. I'm going to call this in to Merrick – he can notify the Madera police and have them try to pick up whoever is in the Taurus, or at least verify who they are."

"One thing bothers me," said Colby. "We didn't see them the whole way up here, but suddenly they're here again. We saw them go past us at Delano. It's almost like they were waiting for us here."

"I know," said Don. "I don't like it either. Maybe there was another car that we didn't pick up, and they clued in the Taurus – or maybe there's a leak somewhere." They all looked at Tavertine.

He raised his hands in protest. "Don't look at me! I didn't tell a soul where I was going this afternoon – not even my wife or my partner."

"Maybe they just pulled out behind us again somewhere after Delano," said Megan. "Maybe we just missed them."

Colby didn't think so; he had been watching carefully all the way up from Delano, but he kept silent. It was true, the Taurus could have fallen in behind them again as the sun went down, and he had missed them in the gathering darkness – but then the Taurus would have had to have been all the way up here before them already – nearly all the way to Madera, because it hadn't started to get dark until they approached town. How could they have known that the team was coming _here_? How did they know that the agents weren't stopping in Tulare, or Fresno?

"We don't have time to conjecture now," said Don. "It looks like only one car now, but we need to get going, before reinforcements show up. The last thing we need is a convoy of reporters chasing us down the highway. Everyone understand the plan? Okay, I'm going to call Merrick quickly for some reinforcements of our own. I'm going to tell him to have some state police meet us over on I-5, and have the local cops try to do an intercept on the Taurus, then we'll get going."

* * *

><p>Donna Bainbridge watched the conversation outside from behind the curtain at the window of her hotel room. The group, in their Kevlar vests, was at once reassuring and frightening. Reassuring, because they looked sharp and professional. Frightening, because she hadn't expected the gear – the bullet-proof vests, the guns. She didn't have to worry about who she was letting in, however; she recognized her attorney, Wilson Tavertine, from the picture on his website, and she recognized Don Eppes from television footage.<p>

At their knock, she opened the door and let in Tavertine, Eppes, and the woman agent, who introduced herself as Megan Reeves. She'd expected to be impressed by Tavertine, and he did seem competent, if a little vain, as he introduced himself and murmured a few words, cautioning her that she did not have to answer any questions. He was, she thought, as she'd expected. She hadn't, however, anticipated her reaction to Don Eppes.

She'd known he was good-looking, and she'd been struck by the emotion on his face when he spoke of his brother on the news broadcast. She was unprepared, however, for the man in person. He exuded confidence, and his eyes… His gaze was intense, and she could catch glimmers of who he was in them – bits and pieces of emotion and character flicking through them like sparks – she imagined he could be kind, passionate, maybe have a wicked sense of humor, but at the same time, by the tight set of his jaw, she suspected he could be edgy, brooding, perhaps a bit of a rebel. At the moment, she could read kindness and sympathy when he looked at her, but he was trying to hide impatience and tension. He was intense, a potent dose of maleness – a study in contradictions. And he knocked her off her feet in one brief moment.

He was talking, and she tried to gather her senses. He introduced himself and Tavertine, and she held out her hand. "Donna Bainbridge. I'm sorry – I'm sorry I waited so long to call you. I saw the story on the news today – and – well, I think I have an idea what they gave your brother. I'll have to talk to the doctors and we'll need to do some tests to confirm my suspicions, but if they're correct, I can come up with an antidote."

He stared at her for a moment, apparently a bit stunned to hear what he'd so obviously hoped for. He nodded at her, and his voice softened. "All right then," he said, "I'm glad to hear that. There's not a lot of time. We should get going."

Megan Reeves held out a Kevlar vest and took the ball cap from her head. "Put these on, and put your hair up. You're riding with Don; we're going to try to make any observers think that you are me, and I am you. I'll ride in the other vehicle."

"I still think I should ride with you," Tavertine complained to Don, as the women hastily dealt with their hair.

"It makes sense that you ride with your client," murmured Don, who lifted a corner of the curtain to look out.

"Exactly!" said Tavertine, with a look of relief.

Don turned to face him. "Which is why you need to ride with Megan, since she is posing as Dr. Bainbridge. We need to make it look like you are riding with your client – just in case anyone recognized you on the trip up."

Donna was pulling on the dark ball cap, emblazoned with 'FBI' in white letters, and she stopped and stared. "Recognized you on the trip up?" she repeated. "What do you mean?"

They hesitated, then Megan looked at Don, and finally back at Donna. "We think someone might have followed us here. Don't worry – we're taking all precautions – and we've called for backup from local police. They are most likely just reporters."

Donna's face turned pale under the ball cap, but she said, "Okay. My car is out back."

Don shook his head. "We'll leave it here. We'll have someone from the state highway patrol drive it down for you."

Donna nodded. She pointed to some boxes on the floor. "Those are research records and experimental vials. I salvaged them from the lab – I'm going to need them." She snatched up a small soft-sided briefcase that was sitting on the bed, and clutched it to her chest. "This stays with me. And I'd prefer the boxes stay with me, too."

Don looked at them – there were several boxes, but they'd all fit in his vehicle. "We'll load it in my SUV – they should fit. Let's go."

* * *

><p>They carried boxes out to the cars, and Colby sidled up to Don, as Don slid a box into the rear seat of his SUV. "They pulled around again," said Colby, "they're parked on the street a little past the gas station, about a block and half down, with their lights off. They waiting – and watching."<p>

"Good," grunted Don. "Let's get loaded up and get the women in the vehicles while they're watching."

They were done loading the boxes in short order, and Don checked his text messages. "Merrick says Madera police are on their way over here to check out that Taurus. He gave them our route – they'll fall in behind us, and pull the car over if it's still following us. Let's get going – they'll catch up with us."

Don pulled out first, and David fell in behind him. Back a block, the lights of the Taurus came on, and Don saw it pull out from the curb. It fell in behind them a block or two back like a lone gray wolf, slinking along behind its prey.

* * *

><p>Author's note: Let the action begin...<p>

End, Chapter 20


	21. Chapter 21

Camouflage

Chapter 21

The instrument panel lights illuminated Donna's face; it was pale and set, and she stared straight ahead out of the windshield as they headed south on Road 29. As they drew closer to Route 99, Don sped up. The highway exit was right where Road 29 joined Avenue 12 – if they could get far enough ahead, they might be able to turn off on Avenue 12 before their pursuers could see them do it – which might lead the driver of the Taurus to take the highway instead. They would undoubtedly discover their mistake, but by the time they got turned around, the agents would be halfway to Interstate 5.

The evasive maneuver proved ineffective. As Don drew close to the highway he increased his speed, trying to pull ahead, but David also sped up and so did the Taurus, sticking to them like glue. The car was still with them as Don made a right onto Avenue 12, but he saw a patrol car coming from the east, on their way to intercept them. He stepped on the gas, watching in his rearview mirror as David made the turn, then the gray Taurus. The squad car was a block or two back, but Don figured as soon as it was directly behind the Taurus, it would turn on its lights, and pull the car over.

He was just beginning to relax a bit, when Donna, still staring straight ahead, said, "I saw them kill Ansel."

Don looked at her sharply. He had heard Tavertine tell her to keep quiet until she had representation, so he hadn't expected the conversation, but he wasn't going to stop it. "Who?"

She hesitated and glanced at him, then took a breath. "I was working late in the lab. I had been doing that a lot lately – we coming down to the wire with our project, getting ready to publish." She looked down, embarrassed. "I'm not seeing anyone – I'm afraid I don't have much of a social life. I work a lot of nights. Anyway, I was in the lab, and I heard someone outside. It's dark and pretty deserted in that neighborhood at night, and I was afraid it was someone breaking in, so I hid in a side office, behind a centrifuge – it's a big piece of equipment."

Don thought about Colby and David's find – that the dusty centrifuge cover had fingerprints on it – and their conjecture that Donna was in the office, hiding.

They were now on the west side of town, and Avenue 12 was entering a more rural area. Don had cut over to I-5 on these roads before, coming home from Stockton. Avenue 12 would shortly become Firebaugh Road, Don knew, and then, as it crossed Route 33, Nees Road. Nees Road would lead them to Interstate 5. Don glanced back and saw David's sedan right behind them, and the Taurus a bit further back. The traffic had dropped off completely out on the rural roads – the three vehicles and the patrol car, which was now coming up behind the Taurus, were the only vehicles that Don could see. He saw the patrol car lights come on and saw the Taurus slow; then begin to pull over. He turned his attention back to Donna.

She had paused, trying to compose herself enough to continue, apparently unaware that their pursuer had just been pulled over. "The person I heard was Ansel. He came inside and immediately called someone on his cell phone, and they came to the lab shortly afterward. There were two men. I had seen one of them before. He had been to the lab a couple of times to pick up some boxes from Ansel. The most recent time was the day before – they sent me out for coffee, so I didn't really get a chance to talk to the man or see what was in the boxes. It was almost as though they didn't want me to see."

Don frowned. "Wait a minute. You said you hid in the lab, and then Stevenson came in and made a call, and the two men showed up a few minutes afterward? When you saw it was just Stevenson in the lab, why didn't you come out of the office?"

He could almost see her blush in the darkness. "I know – it's odd – and the funny thing was I had done the same thing just the night before. The night before, the man who had come during the day for the boxes came back – just he and Stevenson. That night, I hid in the office because I heard someone outside, and didn't know who it was. When they came in, I stayed hidden because they were arguing, and I was a little embarrassed to be hiding in the first place. I was hoping they'd just leave, quickly. The office door was closed and I couldn't quite hear what they were saying, but then Ansel went to the cabinet and took down the racks of experimental vials. I had to move to the door to see, and then he came walking back my way, and I had to hide again – but I saw them standing in front of the racks of vials before I had to move back. I didn't see what the man did over there, but when he walked back into view, it looked like he was holding something in one of his hands. Ansel looked upset, and almost – resigned, like he didn't like what was happening, but couldn't do anything about it. The man and Ansel both left, and when they were gone I went and examined the racks of vials. Two of the vials were missing – two of our earliest trials of the substance we've been testing." She looked at him. "Those early versions were flawed – they ended up killing our subjects – we tested the substance on rats." She paused. "Your brother – what do the doctors say about him? Is he having problems with his pancreas?"

Don stared at her, then wrenched his gaze back to the road and nodded slowly. He felt his throat tighten. "Yes – they said they can't find evidence of any poison, but something is destroying his pancreas."

She nodded. "That is what I was afraid of when I heard the story on the news today, when they said that no one could identify the substance. You see, that is a hallmark of the compound we developed – it binds with other substances, such as insulin or drugs, and makes them invisible to testing. The substances are there in the blood – but can't be found in any conventional tests. For that reason, we nicknamed it Camouflage."

Don frowned, and Donna hastened to add, "It's not the reason we developed it. It is supposed to be a vehicle to provide targeted therapy – to deliver medicine to the site in the body where it is needed and nowhere else, such as to cancer cells – and the fact that it makes that medicine invisible was an unintended consequence. The first versions actually modified the medicines themselves too, and made them dangerous. We finally got it to the point where it at least does not modify the drug it's attached to, so it is now safe – but we still couldn't get it to stop masking the drugs' presence. It was a relatively harmless side effect though, so in spite of that, we were getting ready to publish, and to prepare for human clinical trials."

"So this man came to the office that night, and you think he took two vials of an earlier trial. What happened the next night?"

Donna sighed. "The next night, I was working late again – this time because all of that had aroused my suspicions. Ansel had started the project while I was in my last year of school – I wasn't with him when he developed the trials that the man took, so I came back into the lab after Ansel left for the day, and was going back through his old notes, trying to find out what I could about those first trials."

Avenue 12 had become Firebaugh Road now, and Don glanced at David's sedan in the rearview mirror. Theirs were the only two vehicles now; they had left the Taurus and the squad car behind. The road was dark, but a bright moon shone down, illuminating deserted landscape, scrub punctuated by occasional dark masses of trees. "So why didn't you just ask Stevenson?"

A frown appeared between her brows. "I'm not sure. I guess - the meeting seemed so – clandestine – as if something was not quite right. I was afraid if I dug into something Ansel didn't want me to see he'd remove me from the project and publish without me. I had spent years on it – I didn't want to jeopardize that. So the second night, when he showed up, I grabbed what I was reading and hid in the little office again, so he wouldn't know I was looking into it."

She paused. "That was when he made the call. This time the office door was cracked open a bit, so I could hear what he said. He told whoever he was talking to on his cell phone that he wanted 'it' back. He said they could threaten him all they wanted – he wouldn't be a party to that. Then he said they needed him. I think he wasn't too afraid, because he'd been giving them something they wanted and were going to continue to need, so I'm sure he had no idea he was in danger. I am also sure he was referring to the substance in the vials, when he told them he wanted 'it' back. Maybe fifteen minutes later, two men showed up – the one who had been there previously, and another man I hadn't seen before. Stevenson didn't know him either – I heard him ask, 'Who is that?' Then there was a shot."

Don frowned. "He said, 'wouldn't be a party to that.' Wouldn't be a party to what?"

Donna shrugged. "I had no idea at the time, but they must have been talking about the plan to poison your brother."

Don shook his head. "That doesn't make sense – I wasn't working the Stevenson case yet – Stevenson hadn't even been shot. Why would they target Charlie?"

She looked at him earnestly, her eyes dark in her pale face. "You weren't working the Stevenson case yet – but you _were_ working the Warriors investigation. The man who came and got the boxes from Stevenson – I don't know his name, but I do know he works for the Warriors. I saw him on the sideline at Sunday's game, on television."

Don stared at her, incredulous, then wrenched his eyes back to the road. "You saw him on the sidelines – you made that connection, and you didn't call us?"

She shook her head miserably. "I know – I don't know why – I was afraid. I did try looking for your number, and I started to look for a lawyer, but I didn't think there was any rush. I didn't know they had actually given what was in the vials to someone – in fact, I didn't even realize that that was what they were planning. All Ansel had said was that he 'didn't want to be a party to that.' I had no idea what 'that' was, until today. When I saw the story about your brother on television this afternoon, everything clicked - and I called right away."

She was looking at him with a pleading expression, begging him to understand, and to be truthful, he couldn't blame her. But God, if only she'd gotten up the courage to call a few days sooner…

"Charlie, my brother," he began, and then halted, swallowed, and tried again. "You said you thought you could neutralize the poison. How long would that take?"

She patted the briefcase on her lap. "Thankfully, I took everything I needed for the research from the lab that night. Without the samples and the notes, it would take weeks to recreate the formula and create an antidote. I have two samples vials left from the trial that was used to poison your brother. With those, the notes and a decent lab, I can probably have something in a couple of days – maybe even one."

Don's heart dropped. It was already night, a full 24 hours after the doctor had told them Charlie needed the antidote within the next day or so. If it took her until tomorrow, they would be right up against the doctor's most optimistic prognosis. He felt her eyes on his face. "What?" she said.

"The doctor told us they needed an antidote within a day or so – but that was last night," he said. "The doc said if they don't stop the damage soon, he'll be past the point of no return, even if he lasts another week. He doesn't have two days – he might not even have one."

There was dead silence for a moment, then she looked forward, her chin up, and said firmly, "Well, then, I'll just have to do it in less."

* * *

><p>Rocky Dellarocco and Frank Sczechnewski sat tensely in the front seat of the Taurus, glancing in the rearview mirrors at the cop in the squad car behind them. He was running the license plate, which would come back registered to a printing business – it was a fake business but would look legitimate if checked. Rocky had handed him a driver's license with an alias – one of several that he owned, and the officer was checking it – it too, would come up clean. "Think he's gonna let us go?" said Frank. He toyed with the camera he had stowed in the car as a cover.<p>

"Not sure yet," said Rocky. "That was a stroke of genius, showing him your camera and telling him we were reporters. If we can get him off our backs, it'll be worth the wait. I don't want to shoot him if we don't have to – we'll bring the whole state patrol down on our backs."

"We're losing 'em, though, in the meantime," fretted Frank.

"Not really. Think about the route they took – they're going I-5 on the way back, they gotta be. It's one straight shot, and they've got a ways to go to even get to the highway. We'll ditch this guy, tell him we ain't gonna follow 'em no more, and then as soon as we're out of sight, we'll gun it, and catch up."

Another agonizing moment – in fact, it was only a minute or two – and the officer came walking back and handed Rocky's license to him. "Okay, you're free to go," he said, "with one warning – stay away from those agents. I don't care if you're trying to get a photo of the story of the century – they are on federal business, and if we get a report that you are following them again, the state highway patrol will hunt you down, and you will be faced with some serious charges – felonies that draw jail time. The feds don't take kindly to paparazzi. You got it?"

Rocky gave him a rueful smile, as he tucked away the license. "Yes, sir. No picture is worth that. Trust me, we'll stay away."

The cop gave them a brusque nod, and strode back to his patrol car. Rocky started the car, and as he eased back out onto the road, Frank said, "It's a good thing he didn't want to look in the trunk."

"A good thing for _him_," said Rocky. "If he'd have done that, we would have had to kill him. Speaking of guns, it's time we get that firepower up here with us. I'm gonna pull off as soon as we're out of sight, and then we need to haul ass and get that crap out of the trunk."

The cell phone shrilled, and Frank jumped, and then answered. "Yeah."

"_Where in the hell are you?_" Murciano's voice emanated from the cell phone speaker, grating like broken glass. "_I hear Eppes on the bug talking to Bainbridge, so I assume they picked her up. When are you going to make your move?"_

"We're right behind 'em," said Rocky. He frowned suddenly and looked at Frank. "Wait a minute – you said Eppes was talking to Bainbridge? He can't be. We watched 'em load up. Bainbridge is in the other car with the other agents. Eppes is in the SUV with the woman agent."

"_Like hell he is. I'm telling you, Bainbridge is spilling the beans to him right now – and she saw you both in the lab that night, just like we suspected. Worse yet, she saw Frank on the sidelines at last Sunday's game, so she knows he works for the Warriors – and now Eppes does too. They don't have your name yet, Frank, but they will if we don't shut them up. There's still a chance to get out of this clean, but they both gotta go before either of 'em gets a chance to tell anyone else. They're your first priorities. If you need to take out the other car to get to them, then do it. You need to move, before Eppes gets the bright idea to call that information in to someone."_

The squad car had turned around and headed back to town, and as its taillights faded into the distance, Rocky abruptly pulled the car over to the side as Frank ended the conversation with Murciano. They ran for the trunk, hauling bags of ammo and gun cases into the car. Frank slammed the trunk shut, and they were off, with a squeal of tires.

"I don't get it," said Frank, panting from the effort, as he reached around to the backseat and began pulling a handgun from its case. He whistled at the size. "Christ, this thing's a cannon."

"There are more where that came from," muttered Rocky. "Put the clip in it – like that, yeah. What do you mean, you don't get it?"

"We saw Eppes get in with the woman agent – what's her name – Reeves. I think Murciano is screwed up. Maybe Eppes had Bainbridge on speaker phone."

"If that's the case, then all the rest of 'em know what she said, too," said Rocky, darkly. "But maybe Murciano's right. It wouldn't be too hard to put a vest on her and have her put her hair up under a cap. Maybe they did that to throw us off. We were sitting down the street in plain sight – if they made us, they might have put on a show for us."

"Not in plain sight – that street was pretty dark and we were down a couple of blocks, and anyway, they looked like they weren't paying any attention to us." Frank gripped an armrest as the car lurched and bounded down the road, at a speed that was much faster than was safe for an uneven two-lane road.

"Yeah, well, maybe they aren't as dumb as we think they are," Rocky grunted, as he maneuvered the wheel, trying to keep the speeding car on track.

Frank fell silent; he still wasn't quite sure who was in which vehicle, but he had guns to concentrate on – no easy task in a car that was rocking like a mechanical bull. He wasn't an expert on guns, but one thing _was_ sure – they had enough firepower to take out a small army. The Taurus shot ahead into the night, and finally, up ahead, there was the glow of red tail lights.

"There they are," murmured Rocky. His eyes were gleaming in the dark. "Get ready; we're gonna blast the rear car first – take 'em out of the picture."

Frank took a deep breath. Up until this point, he hadn't killed anyone. He'd been present when Rocky shot Stevenson, but he hadn't pulled the trigger. Now, that was about to change. He lowered the passenger side window and lined up his .44 Magnum with the rear window of David Sinclair's sedan.

* * *

><p>End, Chapter 21<p> 


	22. Chapter 22

Camouflage

_Author's note: I just couldn't leave you hanging like that – so here's the next one, a little sooner than normal..._

Chapter 22

Colby glanced in the side passenger mirror and whipped out his cell phone. "Car coming up behind us, real fast," he said to David, and speed-dialed his boss. "Don – we got a car coming up behind, way too fast – can't tell what it is yet, but it looks like the same headlights as the Taurus."

Megan and Tavertine twisted around in the back seats to look, the headlights looming larger as the distance closed between the two vehicles. David shot a quick glance in the rearview mirror, but held his speed steady as the car roared up behind them. Colby still had the phone to his ear when the first shots hit.

There were the sickening thuds of bullets hitting metal, and the cracking, splintering sound of glass as a bullet whizzed through the center of the back window, and buried itself in the dashboard, a little to the right of center. "They're shooting!" yelled Colby. "Down!" He felt a sharp sting of pain across the top of his shoulder, and bit back an expletive. He'd been hit.

Megan and Tavertine were already down in the back seat, Megan frantically trying to pull out her piece from her cramped position. David hunkered down as best he could behind the wheel, and began swerving back and forth to throw off their attacker's aim. Colby got the passenger side window down and managed to get off a couple of shots in return, when suddenly the car lurched and swerved with sickening speed toward the side of the road.

"They shot out the back tire!" yelled David. "I'm pulling over! Everyone out except Tavertine, and assume firing positions!"

Colby, who had kept the cell phone connection open, yelled into the phone, "Don – you get that? Keep going, man – get the hell out of here – they're probably coming after us anyway because they'll think we've got Donna Bainbridge. We'll hold 'em off, but call us in some backup!"

They scrambled out of the vehicle and took cover behind it while bullets whizzed around them, Megan keeping down and out of sight – it wouldn't do to clue them in that she wasn't really Bainbridge – but she was ready, her weapon drawn, just in case. David and Colby just managed to get their heads up and get a few shots off as the vehicle came roaring toward them. Colby was fully expecting it to stop – he was sure they thought Megan was Bainbridge – but to his shock the Taurus swerved around them at the last minute, and kept going. He grabbed his phone. "Don – they went right past us. Somehow they must have figured out she's with you. We're all okay here but we've got a flat – we've gotta fix it and we'll be back on the road."

He grimaced and put his hand on his wound, and it came up with blood. Megan saw the darkness on his hand in the moonlight, and she exclaimed, "You're hit! David, he's hit!"

"It's a just a graze," Colby said, his jaw clenched. "Come on, we need to get this tire fixed."

David and Megan yanked the spare and the jack out of the trunk. Tavertine unfolded himself from his hiding place on the floor of the back seat, and to their surprise, grabbed the jack, fitted it expertly to frame of the car, and started cranking. "I race cars," Tavertine said between pants. "A little hobby of mine. You don't grow up racing cars without working in the pit some of the time." They looked at him, dumbfounded, and then without question, followed his terse directions, working the tire change like an accomplished pit crew. They were back on the road in minutes – but in a high speed chase, minutes could be a lifetime.

* * *

><p>Don put down his cell phone and hit the gas, his eyes in the rearview mirror. The Taurus was not in sight, but he knew it would be coming up behind them in seconds. "What's wrong?" asked Donna, her eyes wide. She craned her head around to look behind them.<p>

Don was silent for a moment. His thoughts were whirling. Something was very wrong – how did the Taurus show up in Madera after passing them on the highway – and now, how did they know Donna Bainbridge was in the SUV? Then the thought struck him – had they rigged his vehicle with a GPS tracking device?

"No," he muttered to himself. That couldn't be it – it didn't explain how the Taurus had passed them on the highway, and seemingly stopped to wait in or around Madera for them. A GPS device wouldn't tell their pursuers where they were going – but a bug might…

He could now see the headlights, still back in the distance, and shut off his own lights. The moonlight was bright enough that he could see the road, but he still had to slow down a bit. It didn't matter – he was coming up on a turn he knew was there, so he had to slow down anyway to navigate it anyway. He had come this way sometimes years ago, coming back from Stockton – going down to Madera and cutting over to I-5 on Nees Road. They were now on Nees, but it would be better if they turned off and tried another route – whoever was following might assume they would go straight. There was a sign coming up for Russell Avenue - if they made a left on Russell and then made a right on Shields, Shields would also take them to I -5. They could get on the interstate one exit further south. As evasive maneuvers went, it wasn't much, but he had to try to lose them or slow them down until his team could catch up. In the darkness, he almost missed the turn, but he saw Russell Avenue at the last minute and whipped the wheel, and they were headed south, still in the darkness, navigating by moonlight.

"I need a piece of paper and a pen," he said as softly as he could, and Donna opened the soft sided case she'd been carrying on her lap and fumbled for paper. She felt in her purse for a pen, then put the paper on a folder and held it for him, handing him the pen. He wrote in the darkness, big scrawling words, hoping they were legible, with one hand on the steering wheel. Then he hit the light on his cell phone and handed it to her and stepped on the gas, because his quick turn down Russell hadn't fooled them, and the Taurus headlights were behind them now. Donna's head was bent over the paper; she was scanning it under the cell phone light, and Don could make out the words – they were legible enough. '_There's a bug in the vehicle. They can hear us_. _We are going down Russell then right on Shields to I-5_.'

He jabbed a finger at the paper and said quietly, "Text that to Colby. He'll show up as the last caller."

Donna nodded and fumbled with the phone. Even in the darkness, he could see that her hands were shaking. She managed to get the text off, then stuffed her folder back in her case and braced herself as Don made a hard right on Shields. They were almost to I-5, and hopefully, some waiting state patrol backup.

Unfortunately, so was the Taurus. It had gained ground, and had advanced to the point that Don knew they could see them with or without lights, so he turned his lights back on. With the improved visibility he could go faster, and he stepped on the gas. Still, the Taurus was gaining, getting closer. As they approached the entrance to I-5, they were nearing 90 miles an hour and Don slowed slightly to make sure he caught the ramp. It was then that the driver of the Taurus made his move.

The Taurus surged forward, and Don lurched in his seat as the vehicle rammed into the back of his SUV. Donna let out a yelp and bit her lip as the Taurus hit them again, pushing them right past the on-ramp. The SUV was rocking badly as he hit the brakes; it was all Don could do to keep it from flipping - and then they were past the ramp. He had no choice but to continue west on Shields, under the Interstate 5 overpass.

He was in uncharted territory now – he had never been on this stretch of road past I-5, but he knew roughly where he was. There were mountains ahead – the big hills that stretched along the California coastline. The roads would be winding, with steep drop-offs. He might be able to use the twists and turns to his advantage. He still wasn't sure what the car behind them was trying to accomplish – they hadn't shot at them yet, so maybe they wanted to take Bainbridge alive. Or maybe they just wanted to be past the highway and away from any possible source of help before they started shooting. Either way, he had to get out ahead of them somehow, and keep out in front on the curves.

He could see a bend up ahead, and he grabbed the cell phone from Donna and speed-dialed Colby. There was no sense texting now – the Taurus was right behind them. He wouldn't tell anyone listening in anything they didn't already know. "Colby – we just went under I-5 – we did not get on the highway! We're still headed west on Shields – up into the hills - it looks like the road is turning south. You got that?"

He could hear Colby's shouted response in his ear - his team was a just a few miles behind them, coming up Nees. He stuffed the phone in his jacket, swung the wheel hard and swerved around the bend, the Taurus right behind them. They had turned south again and were now running roughly parallel to I-5, but with a mountain range between them and the highway.

Once around the bend, he could see the road ahead, winding along the hills in the moonlight. It ran along the right shoulder of a jagged mountain line, disappearing around bends, only to re-appear at intervals. To the left of the road were hills and cliffs stretching upward, and to the right were drop-offs, some of them gradual, some of them plunging abruptly into inky oblivion.

He stepped on the accelerator, roaring up the road. The Taurus, with its lower center of gravity, would have an advantage around the bends – Don's SUV would need to take the bends at a slower pace or risk overturning. On the straight sections Don needed to go as fast as he could. He could hear Donna's intake of breath as he approached the first curve; it swung right around a rocky outcropping, and he roared around it, the SUV swaying dangerously. The Taurus was right behind them and caught up enough on the curve that it managed to get close enough to bump them again. Not hard, but enough to make the SUV fishtail a bit and to make Donna gasp again.

As Don steered out of the turn and into another straightaway, he had a sudden flash of insight – their pursuers weren't shooting because they might not have to. A nudge at a strategic point, and the SUV would go over a cliff – and the higher they climbed, the steeper that cliff would be. The Taurus hadn't hit them hard on that last curve, because they didn't want them to go over there – there were bigger drop-offs ahead. They were just trying to make sure Don was going as fast as he could, because the chances of losing control would be greater the faster he was going. He had a brief disconnected thought; that Charlie would be able to calculate exactly the speeds and forces involved in such a collision, and the force of impact when they hit the bottom.

He shook his head, trying to clear it – too much adrenaline was clouding his thought processes. There was really only one way out of this, and that was to take them out first.

He grabbed the wheel firmly with one hand and reached for his holster, releasing his Glock. Unfortunately, he had to talk – whoever was listening in would hear him – but there was no way around it. He punched on the radio and turned it up loud, then looked at Donna, who was staring at the gun, and motioned her to lean closer. He spoke in her ear, hoping the radio garbled his words. "Release your seatbelt and get on your knees facing backward. I'm going to lower the back window– I need you to take a couple of shots. You ever shoot a handgun before?"

She looked at the gun with trepidation, but nodded. "I used to have a much smaller one."

He waited until she got situated, turned around and kneeling and leaning on the back seat for support, and then he handed her the Glock. "The safety's on." He hit the button to retract the rear window of the SUV, and saw her flick off the safety and set herself, before he looked back to the road, concentrating on keeping the SUV as straight and steady as possible. He heard the shots crack off in his ear, almost deafening in the enclosed space, and in the rearview mirror, saw the Taurus swerve wildly. "Good shot."

Donna got off one more, but the Taurus had already lost control, and had entered a spin. Don held his breath, praying for it to go over the side, but the driver regained control. Don could see them come to a stop facing the wrong way, and saw the car start to back up and turn around, before he swung around the next bend and lost sight of them in the mirror.

The G-force of the curve caused Donna to sit back down hard sideways in her seat, but she had the presence of mind to keep the Glock pointed toward the roof. The bend banked in to the left toward the cliff, and then back out again sharply and then around another bend. Still no Taurus. They hadn't lost them, Don knew – the road was narrow, and he knew it would take them a couple of time-consuming three-point turns to get turned back around, but they would catch up quickly. There was a sign up ahead for a scenic overlook and he knew what he had to do – and they had only a few seconds to do it.

He whipped around the next bend – way too fast as it turned out, because the pull-off for the overlook was right there, after the bend. He hit the brakes hard as he flew into the narrow parking area – more a widening in the road than a true parking area and for a hair-raising moment, it looked as though they would not stop in time. Donna cried out as the SUV hit the low metal guardrail, tearing part way through it before it came to a stop, one front wheel nearly hanging over the drop-off. Don grabbed the gun from her, wrenched open his door and motioned for her to get out on her side. She scrambled out, slamming her door shut, but he kept his open and ran around the back of the vehicle to meet her as she came around the back, clutching her briefcase to her chest, her eyes wide. He pointed across the road and up the hill. "Get up there, up the hill; run!" he hissed in her ear. "Keep going – get as far away as you can and keep under cover. I'm going to try to hold them off until the team gets here. If something happens to me, keep climbing. I-5 is over the top of that hill and a mile or two west of here - watch for a state patrol car. Go!"

She looked at him for just a moment, and then ran, still clutching her case to her chest. Don held his breath – if the Taurus came around the bend while she was in the road, she was as good as dead. She cleared the road, and scrambled up the hill among the rocks, disappearing in the darkness just as the sound of the Taurus hit Don's ears. He darted back around to his open door and spoke loudly, for the benefit of whoever was listening in on the bug. "Get down in your seat, and stay down!"

He ducked down behind the SUV and trained his gun on the curve in the road. As the Taurus roared around the corner, he squeezed off two shots, then ran. The Taurus was coming straight for the SUV – either on purpose or not, he didn't know, but he ran and dove as the bang and clash of metal sounded behind him. As he rolled on the pavement of the parking area, he saw his SUV tear through the last bit of guardrail as if in slow motion, and disappear over the edge. The Taurus very nearly followed it; it came to rest just inches from the gaping hole in the rail. There was a bang as the SUV hit cliff on the way down, and then a few seconds later a muffled boom rose from the darkness below, as it hit bottom.

Don scrambled to his feet; he was in the open with no cover. He didn't want to head across the road and up the hill toward Donna and risk bringing their pursuers to her – his only two choices were to run further along the road and try to take cover behind some big boulders up ahead next to the road, or to go over the side of the cliff.

He headed for the road at a sprint, but the Taurus surged to life, backing out with a squeal of tires, and it pulled into the road, cutting him off. Gunfire erupted from the car, and a white-hot pain seared Don's shoulder. He stumbled, scrambling backwards toward the edge of the cliff, getting off a shot of his own before he swung a leg over a part of the remaining guard rail, and looked down. It was a steep drop. About ten feet down there was a small tree growing out of the rock face, forming just a bit of a ledge, and beyond that the moonlit cliff faded into nothing but blackness. Far, far below, he saw a spot of fire through the trees; his SUV. It gave him an idea of how far down the bottom truly was – certainly not survivable. A shot sounded and a bullet zinged past his ear; he took a breath, shoved his gun in the back of his waistband, and went over the edge.

There was a heart-stopping moment as he slid down the side, falling, gaining speed far too quickly before he hit the tree, harder than he thought he would. He scrabbled and clawed, trying to gain a grip on anything, tree, hillside – and for a sickening instant he felt himself still going, going past the tree, before his injured arm caught hold. He hooked it around the small tree's base, grabbed a gnarled branch with his good arm, and pulled himself up, gasping, spent, and in pain, propped between the base of the tree and the cliff. Somehow, the Glock had stayed with him during the process, and he pulled it out of his waistband and shrank as far as he could against the cliff. There was a slight recess in the cliff-side; it had looked more substantial from above. He'd been hoping he could conceal himself in it, but it was too shallow and he knew he was exposed. He could hear footsteps approaching and as a head appeared over the side, he held his breath, hoping they wouldn't look too hard, wondering if they could see him in the darkness.

"There he is," he heard, "he's not moving. He's stuck on that tree." That was enough; Don knew their next move would be some insurance shots to be sure he was dead, and he raised his arm and shot toward one of the heads that was peering over the edge.

He missed; he heard them scramble backward, swearing. He knew it was only a matter of time – they would try to creep forward and fire at him and he would be forced to fire back to keep them from getting a good shot, until his ammunition ran out. Then he would have two choices – stay there and take their fire, like a fish in a barrel – or let go. Either way, in a few moments, his time would be up.

He swallowed hard, his heart pounding, and whispered, "I'm sorry, Dad; I'm sorry, Charlie." His only consolation was that Donna Bainbridge had escaped, and with any luck, the men trying to kill her would think she went over the edge in the SUV. Maybe she could make it back somehow in time to help Charlie. Then he remembered – Donna hadn't gone over the edge, but all her of files and the vials had, and were now no doubt burning at the bottom of the ravine. How long had she said it would take to develop the antidote without them? Weeks? A wave of nausea swept over him; all of this had been fruitless. He was going to die, and so was Charlie.

A small pebble dislodged from above tumbled down past him; and he lifted his Glock again, and fired.

* * *

><p>End, Chapter 22<p>

_Author's note: And you thought the last chapter was a 'cliffie'!_


	23. Chapter 23

Camouflage

_Author's note: Yes, yes, I know – that was mean. :)_

Chapter 23

Charlie awoke with a start and stifled a groan under his oxygen mask.

He'd dropped off earlier and had awakened to find his father asleep in his chair, so he had gone back to work. In his heart, he knew that narrowing down his search to two towns, Tulare and Madera, were probably enough for Don – it had been a few hours since he'd asked his father to give Don the information, and there were probably only so many hotels in either town, so to try to refine his model further was probably pointless. If she were in one of the towns Don would find her soon anyway. Charlie's mind, though, prodded him back to the computer; it wouldn't let him rest until he had solved the problem definitively. So he went back to studying data and pecking at keys, although he was so exhausted and in so much pain it was hard to focus. He'd ended up falling asleep again, but not for long. He couldn't sleep deeply – the pain kept waking him, and he found himself vacillating between bouts of fitful sleep and strange dreams, like the one that had just awakened him now.

It was disturbing; he dreamt he was face to face with Don in some dark place, waiting for Don to say something to him, and then suddenly they were ripped apart by some unseen force – it was as if he was falling, and Don was receding further and further away, even though Charlie reached out for him. He had awakened before he hit bottom but the horrible feeling of dread he had when he woke and remembered his plight was now mingled with the anxiety from the dream. Mindless, emotionless immersion in his model was the only thing that could chase those feelings away, so that was where he went. As he pondered an element of his analysis, his gaze wandered, and he realized his father was no longer napping in his chair. He was standing out in the hallway with Larry and Amita. Charlie was so out of it; he hadn't noticed they were out there. Doctor Schilling was there, too; he was talking to them, and by the worried expressions on his father's and his friends' faces, what the doctor was saying wasn't necessarily good.

Even more shocking was the revelation of how low he had sunk, physically. What struck him almost as much as their worried expressions was the ease of their body language as they stood in the hallway. They looked strong and healthy – the simple act of standing there was nothing to them, and it occurred to him suddenly that he'd reached a point at which he could no longer do that. He'd been able to stand and walk just the day before; now he could barely lift his hands to type. Somewhere along the line while he'd been buried in his work during the past 24 hours, he'd sunk to this point.

The exhaustion, the pain, the frightening realization of how sick he really was suddenly coalesced; he felt tears sear his eyes and he turned his face away from the doorway with a soft intake of breath, fighting to regain control. They would probably be coming in any minute – he couldn't let them see him like this. They were all trying so hard to be encouraging. He managed to get hold of himself; he took a few deep breaths and glanced down at his laptop, but his mind kept going back to Don. He wasn't out in the hall with the others; Charlie hadn't seen him since last evening. Granted, he was probably working hard on trying to find Bainbridge, but Charlie couldn't rid himself of a feeling of anxiety when he thought of him. It was probably generated by the frightening dream he'd just woken from, he told himself, but even so, he couldn't shake it.

Dr. Schilling entered the room; Charlie could see the rest of them waiting in the hallway until Schilling was finished. "How are you doing, Dr. Eppes?" Schilling asked kindly, but Charlie knew it was a rhetorical question. The answer was 'lousy,' and Schilling knew it. Charlie didn't bother answering; he couldn't be heard well under the oxygen mask anyway.

Schilling did a brief exam, checking the monitor at the bedside, looking at Charlie's eyes, checking the charts. The nurses had been in and out, tracking pulse rate, temperature, blood oxygen levels and who knew what else, and recording them in the chart. "Let me do a quick check," Schilling said quietly, pulling aside a curtain for privacy. Alan had just walked into the room and he stopped, hesitating at the edge of the curtain, so Charlie waved him toward the bed. No sense in standing on ceremony with family members at a time like this. He made certain a blanket covered him from the waist down and at Schilling's request he raised his gown to reveal his chest and abdomen. His father's eyes narrowed with concern and Charlie craned his neck, trying to look down past the oxygen mask and the bunched up gown. He could see his protruding ribs covered in what looked like mottled dusky red bruises, and the same color surrounded his navel. He looked grotesquely thin, and what were those markings? Was his skin changing color? His hand went unconsciously to his face, and Schilling interpreted the gesture.

"No, that coloring is not on your face, Doctor," he said. "It's a sign of pancreatitis called Grey-Turner's sign, and it appears only on your abdomen. I'd like to send you for a CT scan and ultrasound; I know it's probably the last thing you want to deal with now, but it's the best way to check the progression of the pancreatitis." He gently helped Charlie adjust his gown. He then glanced down at Charlie's laptop and he appeared about to comment on it, but when Charlie reached for it protectively, Schilling thought better of what he had been going to say and shut his mouth.

He murmured a few words to Alan as he stepped away, pulling the curtain open as he did so. Amita and Larry were still outside, and waited until Schilling exited before entering the room. Charlie couldn't wait to see them, but he had a pressing question for his father, and he pulled his oxygen mask off. "Where's Don?"

His father hesitated, and Charlie's heart dropped. His premonition had been correct; there was something wrong. But Alan just shook his head. "He's out working on bringing in Dr. Bainbridge," he said.

Charlie shook his head and spoke a little breathlessly. He could feel the lack of oxygen already. "Something's wrong. He hasn't been here in over a day. Did you give him the names of the two towns I found?"

"Yes, Charlie, relax, and put your oxygen mask back on," said Alan, coming forward to help Charlie loop it around his head.

Charlie waved him away, scowling. He couldn't talk to visitors while wearing a mask.

"I talked to him just a couple of hours ago," said Alan. "He's fine."

* * *

><p>There was a bang and an almost simultaneous searing pain across Don's thigh, and he took in a quick breath through his teeth, and shot upward again. It seemed there was only one man shooting, but he was getting bolder – taking a bit more time to take aim before he ducked back out of range. The shots were getting closer and from the sound of the gun, it was large caliber. Although Don was wearing a Kevlar vest, if he took one direct hit from that gun he was probably as good as gone, even if the bullet just hit one of his limbs. It would blast open an arm or a leg, and he would bleed to death. That is, unless he took a direct hit to the head first.<p>

He heard one of them make a high keening sound, and for a moment Don thought he had hit him. Then he realized it wasn't a human whine at all; it was sirens, off in the distance and coming closer. More than one siren; David and Colby must have called in some backup – maybe the state troopers who had been waiting for them on I-5. The two men above him heard the sirens too; he heard muffled, sharp conversation, and then footsteps coming closer to the edge. They were coming in for one last volley. Don shrank against the cliff and waited for the first shot, then shot back, and the man on the edge jerked backward. The sirens were getting louder. Another bullet from above hit the trunk of the small tree on the ledge, just about his head. Don raised his gun again, pressed the trigger – then – nothing. He was out of ammunition. He sat there, his heart thumping, waiting for the bullets to rain down.

* * *

><p>They roared around the curve, and Colby yelled, "Stop! Stop!" just as David caught sight of a slight figure in front of them in the middle of the road.<p>

It was Donna Bainbridge, her hands up, waving them down. No Don, no SUV; just Bainbridge, and David's heartbeat quickened. He and Colby and Megan and Tavertine were out of the car before the state troopers' vehicles had even come to a stop behind them, and he ran toward Bainbridge, who had turned and was running across the gravel parking area toward the edge of the lookout, waving at them to come.

"Here – Agent Eppes is here," she called over her shoulder. "He went over the edge and he must be down there somewhere, because they were shooting at him and he was shooting back up at them."

As David ran, he noticed that further down to the right the guard rail had been breached, and his heart thumped harder. Had Don gone over the edge in the SUV? How could he have survived? And why was Donna Bainbridge leading them to another spot, several yards away from the hole? None of his thoughts were actually that coherent – he reached the guardrail before they truly had a chance to form, and he peered down over the edge.

The moonlight was just enough to make out a form propped between the cliff and the base of a small tree, and David caught his breath. "Don! Don! Can you hear us?"

"Yeah," came the reply, and relief flooded David at the sound of the familiar voice. "Get me up."

The state troopers had run up and joined them at the edge and one of them said, "We keep rescue gear in our trunks for hikers and climbers. I'll go get it."

"Hold on!" yelled Colby, "We're going to get you out of there."

David looked at Donna Bainbridge. She was pale and shaken, clutching her case to her chest. "Are you okay?"

"Yes," she said, but she was trembling, and Megan put a reassuring arm around her. Donna continued, her voice shaky, talking a little too fast. "They kept hitting the vehicle with their car; they were trying to make us go over the edge. Agent Eppes had me shoot at them – it slowed them down a little, but not much. Don – Agent Eppes – got around the bend and pulled into the parking area – we almost went over the edge ourselves; we hit the guardrail but we stopped." She pointed at the gaping hole in the rail, a few yards away. "Agent Eppes told me to run up in the rocks and hide; he stayed by the vehicle – I think he was going to try to use it as cover, but they came around the bend and hit his vehicle, and it went right through the guard rail. He was left out in the open and had nowhere else to go and they were shooting at him – so he went over the edge. At first I thought he must have – just _jumped_, but when they started shooting at him, I knew he couldn't be too far down. They kept shooting back and forth – then the men just ran for their car. They must have heard the sirens."

Tavertine was peering over the edge and he pointed. "There – I think that must be the SUV – something's burning down there."

They all clustered at the edge to look, and then the trooper was back with a harness so they went to work, making sure several of them had a grip on it, and they lowered it down to Don.

Moments later they had him up, grimacing and nearly spent. He staggered a little as they removed the harness, and when David put out a hand to steady him, it came away wet. "Don – you're bleeding. Were you hit?"

"A couple of grazes," said Don brusquely. "They're not a big deal. I'll get them patched up when we get back." He seemed quiet, morose, and he turned and walked over to the edge and looked down. David and the others looked at each other; then followed him. The fire below was burning more brightly now; there had been an explosion while they were pulling Don up the cliff, loud in spite of the distance.

"Oh my God," said Megan suddenly, as the reason for Don's somber mood hit her. She looked at Donna Bainbridge, aghast. "All your work – your files and the samples – they were all in the SUV!"

Colby blurted, "What about Charlie? Can you still help him without that information?"

"Yes," Donna began, but Don cut her off.

"She can, but it will take weeks," he said. His voice sounded bitter; hollow. "Isn't that what you said?"

"Yes, I did say that," said Donna. She sounded oddly unperturbed. "But I kept this." She held up the soft sided briefcase, smiling. "I condensed the most critical notes into a few folders during the last several days. And today, I added more detailed notes from the beginning of the project and the last two vials from the same trial that the man took, to make sure I had everything to develop an antidote in this briefcase. I didn't want to waste time plowing through boxes when we got there. The rest of it was valuable for documentation purposes when the time comes to publish, but I still have the essence of what I need." A flicker of hope was beginning to appear in Don's eyes again, and she smiled at him. "We should get going – we don't have much time."

Don's leg wound was a graze as he had said but the gash to his upper arm was just a bit deeper, and they took a few moments to bind the wounds using bandages from a first aid kit in one of the state trooper's vehicles, and bandaged Colby's wound as well, which turned out to be a small gash at the top of his shoulder. While they were doing that, one of the troopers phoned in a BOLO for the Taurus, and called in for another team to check on what was left of the SUV. They loaded up again; Don and Donna Bainbridge rode with David and Colby, and Megan and Tavertine piled into one of the state trooper's cars. There was one other state police vehicle with them, and a third joined them as they got on Interstate 5.

With four vehicles, Don felt reasonably sure that they wouldn't be attacked again – at least not by a single vehicle, and the men in the Taurus appeared to be working alone. Still, he had Donna slump down in her seat; there was a good chance that their attackers thought she was dead – gone over the edge in the SUV. In case anyone happened to catch a glimpse of them on the road, he didn't want her seen. She was happy to oblige; she looked exhausted and soon fell asleep, propped in the corner of the vehicle where the rear seat met the door, using Colby's jacket for a pillow. It was a good thing, Don thought to himself; she would need the sleep. She would probably be up most of the night.

His arm was throbbing; he shifted uncomfortably, and in the dim light of the vehicle he studied her face. She was pretty, in a clean no-nonsense way, with long chestnut hair and flawless skin that showed pale in the dim light. A slender jean-clad leg shifted slightly as she stirred in her sleep, and her lower leg came to rest against his. He thought from the way she behaved at the hotel she was interested in him, at least a little; he was good at picking up on those cues. If his head was on straight; if he wasn't so desperately worried about Charlie, he might actually be interested himself. Right now, though, he couldn't think about anything else. And then there was Robin Brooks – not that they were dating exclusively, but…

He settled back into the other corner, grimacing a bit as his injured upper arm pushed against the seat back, and he shifted until he got as comfortable as he could. He spent the rest of the ride back watching her face.

* * *

><p>Rocky turned the wheel sharply and they shot around a corner, and Frank grabbed the passenger side armrest as he was flung against the door. He managed to keep hold of the cell phone, and Murciano's voice came from the speaker. "<em>I heard the shots.<em> _What's going on?_"

Frank gave him the story – of taking out Agent Sinclair's vehicle, chasing Eppes and Bainbridge, and cornering them at the parking area for the lookout. "The SUV went over the edge," he said. "When we hit it Eppes scrambled back out of the way, or he would have gone over with it. We didn't see Bainbridge anywhere – we think she might have been in it."

"_That's a good thought_," came Murciano's response. "_I heard the bang when you hit it, and just seconds before that, I heard Eppes tell her to get down in her seat, and stay down. She might well have been in the vehicle_. _How far was the drop?_"

"Far," said Frank. "We could see it way down there – there was no way anyone would have survived that, and to top it off, it was on fire. Anyone in that vehicle had to be gone. But we couldn't get Eppes. We had him cut off from the road – but he jumped over the side of the freakin' drop-off. He got hung up on a tree, not too far down. We were shooting at him but he was shooting back – we couldn't get a good shot. Then we heard sirens, so we got the hell out. So she's probably dead, but Eppes is still alive." He looked at Rocky. "So where does that put us?"

"I think we're okay," said Rocky, as he glanced in his rearview mirror, "provided we can get out of this."

"_I think you're right_," said Murciano. "_I've been considering it. _ _Based on what Bainbridge told him,_ _Eppes knows that someone in the Warriors organization was involved in the hit on Stevenson, but that's all he knows. He doesn't have a name and he doesn't know exactly who she saw – he needed Bainbridge to visually identify_ _you, Frank. With her gone, you're okay, and so are we. Eppes may guess at the truth, but he'll be unable to prove it. And he'll have other things on his mind, like his dying brother. Unfortunately, all of Stevenson's work and my potential profit on Camouflage probably went with her – but that is a small price to pay, considering the circumstances. You both just need to be sure you get out clean. _"

"Workin' on it," said Rocky. "I don't see them behind us yet. We'll try to get down around Bakersfield, ditch the car, and find another way back down to L.A."

"_Okay. We're almost out of this. Don't get caught_. _By the way, Gruselli is in town; he came out to help. I'm going to have him stake out UCLA Medical Center, where Eppes' brother was admitted – just in case she's not gone. If she wasn't in that SUV and is still alive, I'm guessing that's where they'll head – either there or her lab_."

"Right," said Rocky, and the call disconnected.

Frank looked at him. "Who's Gruselli?"

"Someone from back in Jersey," said Rocky. "Jackie. He does stuff – odd jobs and that. Like me." He shook his head. Then he made a sour face and mimicked Murciano. "_'Don't get caught_.' What in the hell does he think we're trying to do?" He was silent for a moment. "I think he's right, though - I still think we need to keep an eye on Eppes even if Bainbridge is gone. If he gives up on the investigation, fine – but if he doesn't, we may still need to take care of him."

Frank said nothing; this whole thing had already gone way past his ability to cope. He was pissed off at the circumstances and was scared as hell, but he was trying hard not to show it.

After a minute, Rocky snorted and shook his head. "What?" said Frank.

"I can't believe he called in goddamn Gruselli," groused Rocky. "We were handling this okay."

Frank shrugged. "So what? What's wrong with that?"

"Gruselli," said Rocky. "Gruselli is what's wrong with that. The guy's freakin' crazy."

* * *

><p>Donna Bainbridge paused at the door to the hospital room and Don Eppes slipped in front of her through the doorway and approached the figure in the bed. "Charlie," he said gently, "I have someone you should meet."<p>

An older man in a chair jumped up – Eppes senior, Donna supposed – and said, "Donny!" his voice filled with surprise and relief, but Donna's eyes were on Charlie, and as he turned his head, her heart caught.

Press file pictures of him had dominated the news all day. The figure in the bed bore little resemblance to the good-looking young man in the pictures, with the big dark eyes and a smile that made her want to smile back. He looked so wasted, so sick already, and she wondered if Don wasn't right; it might be already too late. Charlie was looking at her and she managed to step forward and hold out her hand.

He pulled off his oxygen mask and smiled, and although his voice was weak and the dark eyes were tired, the smile still gave a hint of the irresistible grin in the news footage pictures. "Dr. Bainbridge, I presume," he said. A glint of humor, in the most unlikely circumstances. His voice was soft and just a bit husky, and God, he just looked so young, she thought. Her heart twisted. She shouldn't have met him, she thought – him or his brother. She was emotionally invested in this now, and that wasn't a good thing; she needed a clear and rational head. She was suddenly very anxious to start working.

She said, "I'm glad to meet you, Dr. Eppes," and took his hand. His grip was very weak and his arm was trembling slightly from the effort of holding up his hand. She glanced sideways at Don as she shook their father's hand and Alan introduced himself; Don's eyes were on Charlie, and he looked stunned at his brother's condition. At the sight of the expression on his face, Donna was even more anxious to get going. She held up her case. "I have everything I need with me," she said, "and now if you'll excuse me, I would like to get to work."

Her words seemed to pull Don Eppes out of his reverie. "Yes," he said, "we need to get started. The hospital is setting up lab space for her right downstairs."

Alan was looking at the blood on Don's jacket and leg, and at the makeshift bandage wrapped around his arm, his face filled with concern. "Don – your arm, your leg – you're hurt." Charlie's eyes widened and an anxious furrow appeared between his brows as he scanned his brother.

"It's nothing," said Don brusquely. "A couple of scratches. I'll get them looked at after I get Donna – Dr. Bainbridge – set up." He stepped forward and gently squeezed his brother's shoulder and the younger Eppes looked up at him with a quick flash of gratitude in his dark eyes. Now, Donna thought, she had to live up to that gratitude.

As she moved for the door, she saw Charlie Eppes gently close his laptop computer with a soft click, and heard him say quietly to his father, "I think I'm ready for that morphine, now." She could see pain etched in his face, could hear it in the tightness in his voice.

Don Eppes ushered her out the door, his face pale, but to the casual observer, emotionless. Donna could feel the apprehension radiating from him like an invisible field, however, and the tension and the silence hung in the air, all the way to the lab.

* * *

><p>End Chapter 23<p>

A_uthor's note: You think I'm done with the action sequences? Think again…_


	24. Chapter 24

Camouflage

Chapter 24

Donna and the agents were ushered into a good-sized room right off the ER. It was not the main lab; it was a supplemental lab area, but it had been set aside just for her, and was well-equipped. There, they met with a group of doctors and technicians led by Dr. Schilling, Charlie's lead physician. Most of them were in street clothes – they had come from home, undoubtedly, at this time of night. Donna glanced around – she saw no sign of Tavertine, her lawyer; she knew Don Eppes had told him they had no intent of pressing charges on Donna so there was no need for him to stay. She herself had told him he could leave; and it appeared he had taken their advice. It _was_ late.

She faced the physicians, and Don Eppes and his team clustered around with them as she talked, outlining what she would need in terms of materials and equipment. A couple of the technicians nodded and went to work and while they gathered the necessary items, she explained to the rest of the group what she needed to do.

"Dr. Stevenson's first trial of the drug – we'll call it substance A – was flawed," she said. "He was trying to design a drug that could link to specific receptors in the body to target drug delivery to only certain cells. In his first experiment, he was trying to use it to deliver insulin directly to the pancreatic cells of lab rats. Substance A was only supposed to be a carrier for the insulin and was not supposed to interact with the drug it was carrying, but unfortunately, it modified something – perhaps the insulin itself – and the new resulting chemical attacked the pancreas. The rats started dying. Substance A also had the unintended effect of camouflaging itself and whatever it was carrying, which is why you have not been able to detect it in a blood test – it would not react with known any known markers or agents. Stevenson was able to reverse the process that linked the two compounds together by developing another compound, substance B, which 'unlocked' the Substance A and the insulin, turning them into two separate harmless substances again. Substance B is, in effect, an antidote. I have Dr. Stevenson's notes from those trials; I should be able to recreate substance B in just a matter of hours, especially with help." She gave brief nod of appreciation to the lab technicians.

The doctors exchanged glances. Schilling spoke up. "We have a couple of questions. First of all, how confident are you that this substance B will work? And at what dosage?"

Donna hesitated. It was true, the drugs had only been tested in rats, and rats weren't humans. "The dosage can be large – there are no expected side-effects," she stated. "Substance B is harmless in itself. It only reacts with substance A – we can give as much as we need to reverse the process, so we don't need to worry about overdosing. We'll be able to check by taking blood samples after we administer it – substance A and insulin should show up immediately in the blood once the combination is broken apart – and we'll keep on dosing him until substance A no longer shows up. That's how we'll know we've got it all. It will take a while for the body to eliminate the substance, but at that point, it will be harmless. We will also need to watch his blood sugar, because we will be releasing insulin as well."

Schilling nodded. "Okay – that answers the dosage question. But what about the first one? How sure are you that it's going to work?"

Donna's gaze flicked to Don Eppes. He was watching her intently; hanging on every word, and she hated to introduce more uncertainty to add to his anxiety. She took a breath. "We don't know for certain, because it was used on rats, not humans. I am reasonably certain it will work, however, and we can test it for effectiveness before we give it to Dr. Eppes – we just need a blood sample. It's true we may need adjustments, but I have that factored into the timing."

Again the doctors exchanged glances, and Schilling said heavily, "Yes, timing's the issue. We did a CT scan a couple of hours ago and assessed his Ranson's score. That is a score that we use to identify the severity of pancreatitis. With a score of zero to two there is a 2% chance of mortality. A score of three to four indicates a 15% chance of mortality, and five to six indicates a 40% chance of mortality. Dr. Eppes is already at a five, the damage is continuing while we find a cure, and we are afraid the damage will continue for a period even after we apply the antidote. The pancreas, once at this level of irritation, will continue to produce damaging enzymes for some time, even after you remove the irritant. We don't know how long he'll stay at the five-to-six level."

Don Eppes spoke. "What are his chances at the next level?"

There was silence for a moment, then one of the other doctors spoke. "A Ranson's score of seven to eight is as high as it gets. It translates to 100% mortality. He has basically no chance at the next level."

Donna took in the shock on Don Eppes' face, and said briskly. "That is why we need to get started – now." She looked at the doctors. "If can you can make sure your treatments are keeping him as healthy as possible, I'll try to get through this as quickly as I can."

She turned away and motioned to the lab technicians and as they gathered to take her instructions, she tried to control a rising sense of panic. She shouldn't have met them, she thought, miserably. Either of them. Putting faces to the Eppes brothers had raised the stakes for her; she would have been more composed and more objective if Charlie Eppes were just a name, and his brother was some faceless FBI agent. "Get yourself together," she told herself fiercely. "You can't let them down."

She glanced at the clock. It was just after 11 p.m. Five hours. She would give herself five hours to get it done.

* * *

><p>P. J. Murciano sighed, leaned back in his chair, and rubbed his eyes. He'd just gotten a call from Rocky and Frank; they were safely back in L.A. They had made it to just outside Bakersfield, wiped the car down, removed the plates, and then torched the car. They had hidden the weapons in the woods off of some remote back road on the way to Bakersfield. Rocky had been sure he could find the spot again; they would wait a day or two and he would drive back up and get them. Then they had parked the car in another wooded spot just outside Bakersfield, wiped it down, and doused it with a can of gasoline from the trunk and set it on fire. No car, no evidence.<p>

According to Rocky, they had trudged toward town on foot but got lucky; a trucker picked them up and gave them a lift. Once in Bakersfield they had headed for the bus station, dumping the license plates of the vehicle in a dumpster along the way. They paid cash for two tickets and caught a bus back to L.A. They were now a couple blocks from the bus station at a bar, waiting for Murciano to pick them up. They could have called a cab, but it was safer this way. No cab driver's recollection, no evidence.

Murciano had thought of sending Gruselli to get them, but he decided it was wiser to send Jackie to the hospital to nose around and make sure that Donna Bainbridge was really gone. Earlier in the day Murciano had debated on calling in more help, and when he called his contacts on the East Coast to check availability and found out that one of their men, Jackie Gruselli, was in nearby Las Vegas the decision made it itself. Jackie was in L.A. a few hours later, and while Rocky and Frank were on the drive to Madera, Murciano had filled him in on what was happening. Gruselli had actually been listening in on Murciano's conversations with Rocky and Frank during the car chase, and by the time he left for the hospital, he had a good grip on what was going on and what needed to be done. Using Gruselli was a bit like playing with fire; the man was a psychopath – smart, but somewhat unpredictable. A psychopath, however, was perhaps just what was needed to get rid of any remaining evidence – if, in fact, Bainbridge was still alive.

Now Murciano had evidence of his own to deal with. He reached into his desk drawer, hit the eject button on the recording device, and removed the disc. Frank had set it to record continuously in case they couldn't be there to listen in at all times – and it was on when they were present, also. As a result, the equipment had recorded everything the bug picked up for the last 24 hours, which was when Murciano last changed the disc. Now that Eppes' SUV was gone, there was no bug and no need for the recording device any longer – at least from Eppes' standpoint – and certainly not the discs. They would need to decide if it was worth the risk to try to bug him again - and whether or not Bainbridge was alive would factor into that decision.

Murciano had removed the previous discs each night when he left, replacing them with fresh ones, and had disposed of the discs at home after he listened to each of them again, making sure they hadn't missed anything. Tonight's disc would be especially damning; it contained all of Don Eppes' and Megan Reeve's conversation on the way to Madera, and Don Eppes' and Donna Bainbridge's conversation prior to the destruction of the SUV, and since Frank's phone also had a bug in it so they could track his conversations with the players, it had recorded any conversations between Murciano and his men in the field. Plus it also picked up his side of the conversation in the office, including his side conversations with Gruselli. He couldn't be caught with it. And tonight, he was especially paranoid – Eppes now knew there was a connection between Ansel Stevenson's murder and the Warriors organization. Murciano couldn't rule out a search of his offices, just as the agents had searched the players' lockers a few days ago. Maybe they would even search his home.

He tucked the disc in his pocket, stepped out and locked his office door. On the way down in the elevator, he thought about what to do with the disc. It really had been rather stupid on his part to bring the other discs home, even though he had broken them up and thrown them in the trash. Most of them were long gone, already carted away, and didn't have too much on them anyway. This one, though – this one couldn't go home with him. And it couldn't go in his office waste can, either.

The building was quiet and the parking lot just as quiet, dark and empty, as he let himself out of the building. There was just one other car in the lot besides his – probably the janitor's. He glanced around, scanning what he could see of the surrounding streets beyond the lot, and he wondered if he was being watched. If they were out there waiting to tail him, what if the feds followed him and picked him up for questioning on the way to get Rocky and Frank – or worse yet, after he picked them up – and he had the disc with him in the car? He couldn't chance that. There was a dumpster outside the door and he knew the trash was picked up daily. He could throw the disc in the dumpster and it would be gone in the morning. It was late and the judicial offices were closed for the day; the judges gone until the morning. There would be no way that the feds would be here tonight with a warrant to search anything, including the dumpster, before it was emptied.

He stepped toward it, looked around again to make sure no one was around, and tossed it in, and then said, "Shit." He had been so intent on getting rid of it that he'd forgotten to break it into pieces. He paused, wondering if he should climb in the dumpster and get it, but the dumpster was huge, a big industrial waste container, and the sides were so high he wasn't sure if he could even clamber up into it. And if anyone was watching…

"Screw it," he muttered, and walked away toward his car. He _was_ getting paranoid. The damn thing would be gone in the morning, hauled away with the rest of the trash and no one knew to try to look for something like that anyway. He got in his car, slammed the door, and drove off. Frank and Rocky were waiting for him.

* * *

><p>Arnie Sykes, Trainer Frank's assistant, stood at the exit door with his eye to the crack, watching until Murciano was gone. He'd been working late that night; Frank had been gone all day and the guys had left the weight room a mess in Frank's absence. Arnie had been hauling around equipment and piles of towels and cleaning up until just a few moments ago.<p>

He'd actually seen Murciano in the hallway but hung back without calling out a greeting. Arnie was in a ratty T-shirt and was sweaty and dirty, and didn't want to come face to face with the guy in charge in his condition. He waited until he thought the man was at his car, then he made his way to the door. He'd started to open it to go outside when he realized that Murciano was still out there, just outside – he seemed to be just standing there, thinking. Arnie shut the door quickly, just leaving it open a crack, and watched through it, waiting for his boss to leave.

Murciano was turning something over in his hands, and suddenly he strode toward the dumpster and tossed it up over the side. Arnie saw it in the dim light from the exit light as it flashed up and into the dumpster; it was a disc, like a CD or a DVD. As soon as Murciano threw it, he froze, and Arnie thought he heard him swear. He stood a moment, looking up at the dumpster, then shook his head, muttering, and strode toward his car. Arnie waited until he drove away, then stood there scratching his head and wondering at the bizarre behavior.

He almost let it go. He was tired and wanted to go home and have a beer in front of the TV. But then he thought of that reporter, Wallenstein, and of his own new side job as Wallenstein's inside guy for the Warriors. Maybe the disc was scouting footage – recordings of players that the Warriors were interested in – or not interested in, considering the fact that Murciano had thrown it away. Maybe there was something juicy from the football world on it. Wallenstein might pay him some extra bucks for something like that. So Arnie went and got a ladder and a flashlight, and went dumpster diving.

He got lucky – the disc was lying right on top of a mound of trash bags, and he snagged it without too much trouble. He still smelt like stink though, when he got out of there.

The smell persisted even through the drive home, and by the time he got to his apartment, he couldn't wait for a shower. He tossed the disc on a cluttered end table with some of his DVD games and other CDs, and headed for the bathroom. A half hour later, warm, tired and still a bit damp, he was sitting in front of the television with a cold one, the disc all but forgotten. He remembered it as he crawled in bed later and reminded himself to get it to Wallenstein sometime – maybe after Sunday, after the game was over. He yawned, and drifted off to sleep.

* * *

><p>Jackie Gruselli slipped through the hallways of UCLA Medical Center and as he approached the hallway to Charlie Eppes' room, he slowed down, looking around carefully. He'd spent a couple of hours with Murciano earlier that day, going through pictures so he'd know what Don Eppes and his agents and Donna Bainbridge looked like. He looked at pictures of Charlie Eppes too, although to know what he looked like wasn't that important; he knew exactly where he was. Jackie had gotten his room number from information by calling and pretending to be a Cal Sci professor wanting to pay a visit. The woman had been hesitant at first; the hospital was trying to keep reporters out – but when Jackie pretended to be a colleague and spouted off some made up department at Cal Sci, she relented, and gave him the information. He hadn't gone straight there – he had made a detour first, checking out Donna Bainbridge's apartment and the lab where she'd worked with Ansel Stevenson – making sure that she hadn't show up there. Both locations were dark and apparently empty, so he had proceeded to the hospital. If she wasn't dead, chances were she'd be there. Now he was approaching Charlie Eppes' room, and scanning the hallways for signs of agents. There were none.<p>

He sidled up to the doorway of the room and paused. It was empty, save for Charlie Eppes himself, and he was completely out; his eyes closed, his breathing a little fast but regular under the oxygen mask. No agents, no Bainbridge. Jackie took a quick look around; making sure the hallway was still empty. The two nurses at the station down the hallway were talking and looking at a computer screen; they hadn't noticed him. He slipped in and quietly approached the bed. He studied Eppes' IV for a minute; there was a pump attached to it, and Jackie stepped to the foot of the bed to read his chart to see what they had given him. His father had just died; he had personal experience with medication drips and patient charts.

In the chart, he found a familiar word; it was the same type of morphine they had given his father, the old bastard. That, apparently, was what was in the pump. He knew how to operate it and had already figured out how to increase the rate of the drip, and dump the entire contents of the pump into the patient's system. Judging by the time on the chart, they had just started the morphine. The pump would be full. It would be enough to kill him, as bad as he looked – Jackie knew that from experience. And it would be easy to write off as hospital error; no one would be the wiser, just like the nurse who had gotten blamed when his father finally kicked it. The old son of a bitch just wouldn't let go, so someone had to help him along. He had been a mean old cuss. Jackie called it payback.

Yes, killing the professor via a morphine overdose would be easy, but he had no direction from Murciano to do it. He stood for a moment, debating. By all accounts, it sounded as though the guy didn't have long, anyway. But on the other hand, this could be an opportunity that they wouldn't see again.

"Can I help you?" A nurse had appeared in the doorway, and was staring at him suspiciously. "It's well after visiting hours."

"No, just on my way out," Jackie said easily. "I came to see him, but he's asleep." So much for the opportunity. He glanced at Eppes' face, or what he could see of it under the oxygen mask. Young – looked like a kid, he thought, as stepped quietly away from the bed. The nurse gave him a look, but moved away from the doorway.

On the way out Jackie glanced into a gift bag sitting by a recliner, and his attention was arrested by the contents – a Warrior's football. It was signed, and he picked it up out of the bag and looked at it, frowning at the six signatures in red, wondering why those players were in red, when all the others were in black. It was a nice ball, he thought, and the professor sure as hell wasn't going to get to enjoy it. He put it back in the bag, and picked up the bag and began to walk out. It was his, now. The bag would actually give him a bit of a cover as he went through the rest of the hospital, looking for Donna Bainbridge – he would look like someone going to visit a sick person, bearing a gift.

He paused and looked back at the morphine drip attached to the professor's IV, and then glanced back toward the doorway. The nurse was nowhere in sight – she had already headed off back down the hallway. Really, he thought, as he moved back toward the bed, it would be so easy just to tweak that morphine pump, and then just walk out. A dead brother certainly wouldn't help the agent's state of mind – it would make it hard to concentrate on the case.

He made his way around the bed, and reached for the morphine pump.

* * *

><p>End, Chapter 24<p> 


	25. Chapter 25

Camouflage

Chapter 25

Don Eppes stood with his team and surveyed the hallway outside the room where technicians were setting up the lab. Through the doorway he could see Donna Bainbridge already at work, instructing the lab techs, organizing materials. Don rubbed his chin and frowned.

He didn't like the location much; the lab room was private and a decent size, but it was only one room away from double doors that provided access from the ER to the rest of the hospital. One room sat next door, between the lab and the ER, and that room appeared to be fully outfitted for a patient. Right now it was empty, and although it was true that most of the traffic in the hallway would only be patients on gurneys coming from the ER and heading to rooms upstairs, it wouldn't be hard for someone to slip into the ER from the admitting area pretending to see a patient, and then make their way through to the back entrance, through those double doors to this hallway. He knew that firsthand; he had just come through those doors from the ER after getting his arm stitched and his thigh bandaged. Colby had also just returned from the ER, after getting his shoulder attended to. Don lowered his hand from his chin, flexed his sore arm and winced.

His father was standing with them, and he said, "How's the arm?"

"Okay," said Don, sighing. He glanced up and down the hallway – he could see Dr. Schilling a few feet away in conversation with some of his colleagues, reaching for his cell phone. Schilling stepped away and put the phone to his ear. Don looked past him, down the hall.

He could see a man coming down the hallway toward them carrying a gift bag, and he stepped back into the lab for privacy, motioning at Colby, David and Megan to follow with a jerk of his head. As they funneled through the doorway, he saw his father step back out the way of the approaching man, and then drift toward Dr. Schilling, who was still on his phone.

Don glanced at his team. "We need to set up security here." The man passing them in the hallway gave them a curious look, and then walked past them and through the double doors into the ER. As the man moved away, Don indicated him with a nod of his head. "There's going to be traffic in this hallway, and there is easy access to the outside through the ER. I want one of you in the ER itself watching anyone who heads for those double doors from that direction, one right here on the lab doorway, and one down the other direction at the end of the hallway. We'll set up our own security until we can get a guard detail arranged with LAPD. We need to have protection on her while she's here, and then we need to figure out where we'll put her afterward."

Through the doorway, he saw Doctor Schilling shut off his phone, turn suddenly to Alan and speak sharply, and he saw his father go pale. Don felt his heart clutch, and he broke off abruptly and pushed through his agents, out into the hall. His father and Schilling were already breaking into a trot down the hallway, and Schilling waved him to follow, his face grim.

"It's Charlie," said Alan, in a choked voice.

Don broke into a run after them, and turned his head and yelled back over his shoulder, "Stay here, and set up, like we discussed!"

* * *

><p>Jackie Gruselli walked through the ER carrying his bag, and right on out into the waiting area and out the doors to the parking area, smiling to himself.<p>

After leaving the professor's room, he headed straight for the first floor, which held the ER, the labs and radiology. If Bainbridge was still alive, Murciano had told him chances were good she would be in a lab. He had glanced into the rooms near the professor's room on the way out, just in case she had been set up in a room close to him, but no dice.

He had also struck out in the main lab area. It was actually hard to get a look at all of it – he could see into a front room through a window in the door, but there was a back room that he couldn't see into. So he pretended to be lost and deaf to boot, walking right through the first room to get to the back, ignoring the protests of one of the lab technicians, and then pretending to be confused when he pushed through the rear door and found an empty room. It was late, and the two lone technicians in the front part of the room were the only inhabitants. He apologized and got himself out of there and out in the hallway, scratched his head. There were no agents in the main lab, and no Donna Bainbridge.

He poked around the hallways a bit more, strolled through radiology, which appeared to be closed for the evening for outpatient screenings, and then walked over to the entrance to radiology and studied the directory that was posted there. No more labs anywhere else in the hospital; they were all on the first floor. He shook his head. She wasn't at her apartment or in Stevenson's lab, and if she were in the hospital, it would be here, on the first floor. Maybe she didn't make it, after all. It was time to get out of there and regroup before someone found the professor. He glanced at the map again. The fastest way out from where he stood was through the ER, around the corner and down a hallway – he'd enter the back of the ER, walk through it and go out the entrance to the parking lot.

So that was what he did – and that was where he finally got lucky. As he rounded the corner on the way to the ER, he almost stopped short at the sight of the agents standing in the hallway – he recognized Eppes and his team from the pictures Murciano had shown him. To turn around, however, would look suspicious, and so he kept coming. The gift bag containing the football gave him a little anonymity; he looked like a visitor. As he approached, the agents ducked into a doorway, and as he looked past them he could see people working in what was apparently a small lab – and there she was, Donna Bainbridge herself, bent over a lab table. He recognized her from the pictures that Murciano had pulled up from the news footage of the Stevenson case. Bingo.

As he walked out into the parking lot, he couldn't help smiling to himself. Even thought she was alive, it was a perfect set-up, really – in a short period of time, someone would discover Charlie Eppes, dead, and the news would undoubtedly pull at least Don Eppes away, leaving the lab protected by what appeared to be only a crew of three agents. Jackie needed to get Rocky over here, fast, with some materials for a distraction.

It would be easy, he mused, if they did it right. They didn't even need to kidnap her – that would have been a lot more difficult. Murciano had decided to cut his losses, and just wanted her dead. All they needed was a few moments, a little confusion, and a clear shot. Then Eppes would be minus a brother_ and_ minus a case, and Murciano and his man Frank would be in the clear. Jackie could see a fat paycheck coming his way – maybe in as few as a couple of hours.

* * *

><p>Don dashed into the elevator on his father's heels and as the door closed, rapped at Dr. Schilling, "What's going on?"<p>

Schilling was frowning. "A nurse on your brother's floor thinks someone tampered with your brother's morphine pump."

"What?" said Don, weakly. The sudden lift of the elevator made him feel dizzy, and he leaned against the wall for support. He had expected some kind of setback in Charlie's health – but not an attack by someone else. That kind of thing was _his_ job – something he should have accounted for. He was so consumed with setting up protection for Donna Bainbridge he had failed to think of setting up any protection for Charlie. And it hadn't made any sense to, he told himself. They had already poisoned him – but not to kill him necessarily – it had been meant to obtain leverage, or so he had thought. Charlie had been worth more alive than… He stopped that thought and looked at Schilling. "How much morphine did he get?"

"We're not sure," said Schilling. "I need to talk to the nurse. If he got all of it in a short period of time it could depress his respiratory system – which is already not working correctly – so much that he stops breathing. We're not sure right now how much he got."

"I should have stayed with him," Alan moaned, running a hand over his face. "He was sleeping – I thought it would be a good time to leave…"

"It wasn't your fault, Dad," said Don, grimly. "If anything, it was mine. I should have set up protection." Fighting a rising sense of anxiety, he puzzled over the possible motives. Charlie's poisoning was a bargaining chip. Why would they risk killing him? Had Charlie stumbled upon some evidence in his computer searches, something that Don didn't know about? And how would _they_ know, if he had? Of course, the attack on Charlie in parking lot hadn't made sense, either. Was there a purpose to this, or was it just an opportunistic attack? Don shook his head, chagrined. He should have had protection on Charlie's room, no question.

There was a cluster of people in Charlie's room, and a man in scrubs looked up and said tersely, "He's breathing, but his respirations are slowing. We sent the pump down to the lab to measure how much morphine is left in it. He didn't get all of it – Mary caught it and stopped it. We just don't know how much. We're monitoring his vitals, and I ordered Naloxone."

Schilling nodded and stepped over to Charlie, who was lying unnervingly still, pale under the oxygen mask. Schilling gently lifted an eyelid; Don could see that his brother's pupil had contracted to a pinpoint, a small unnatural-looking black dot in the brown iris. Schilling nodded and stepped back, murmuring, "Continue to monitor. Do you have a crash cart?"

The man nodded. "Standing by."

Schilling turned and held out a hand, ushering Don and Alan out into the hallway. "He's in good hands. We'll find out how much he got, and the Naloxone that was ordered is an antidote – it will offset the effects of the morphine."

_An antidote_, thought Don miserably. While Bainbridge was trying to develop an antidote for one toxin, someone had come up to Charlie's room and administered another poison – in the form of morphine.

A nurse, a woman of about forty, approached them. "There was a man in here," she said, her words tumbling out quickly. "I saw him go in and I hadn't seen him before, plus it was after regular visiting hours, so he wasn't supposed to be there. I knew the professor was asleep and that there was no one else in there, and so I went to check. The man was standing there, looking at Dr. Eppes' chart. I asked him if I could help him – not in a nice way, you understand – I was trying to hint that he should leave. He made some lame excuse but he started to go, so I walked back down the hall. When I got to the desk I turned and looked, expecting to see him walking away, but he wasn't out of the room yet so I walked back down. He was coming around from the other side of the bed – where the IV is set up and I thought that was odd, but it didn't hit me at first what he had been doing. Then he picked up his bag and left."

"It took me a minute to understand what he'd done. I watched him go to make sure he got on the elevator; then I walked into the room – and then I realized the pump was running too fast. I ran around and clamped off the tube, and then I shut off the pump. I'm not sure how much morphine got into him before I shut it off." She wrung her hands apologetically, her face twisted with regret.

"It's okay, Mary – you did great," said Schilling, gently.

"Can you describe him?" asked Don.

"Yes," she nodded firmly. "He was about six foot two, maybe mid-thirties, wearing a green shirt and a dark windbreaker and dark pants. He had dark hair – he was not bad looking, but his eyes were odd – empty-looking – I'm not sure how to describe them."

A sudden flash of recollection hit Don – she had just described the man in the hallway downstairs – he had walked right past them, and he had looked right into the lab. It was likely that he had seen Donna Bainbridge. He must have just come from Charlie's room.

Alan was frowning. He stepped back to the doorway of the room, looked in, and shook his head and turned to Mary. "You said he had a bag with him? A gift bag?"

"Yes." She nodded.

"What?" asked Don. He frowned, remembering. The man downstairs had been carrying a gift bag.

"He took Charlie's football," said Alan, in a bewildered tone. "Why would he do that?"

It was Don's turn to look puzzled. "Football?"

"Deondre Wiseman stopped by earlier with a football for Charlie," said Alan. "It was in a gift bag – it had all of the team signatures – I think it was a standard replica, but six of them autographed it personally. Why would the man bother to steal a gift after what he'd done?"

"I didn't realize he'd stolen it," said Mary. "I thought he brought it in with him."

Don frowned. "Probably just took it to use it as a prop – as cover. Made him look like a visitor - ," he broke off. "Wait, Dad, you said six players signed the football. Are you sure it was six? Do you remember who they were?"

Alan stared at him, then scratched his head. "I'm not sure. Wiseman was one, uh…" He bowed his head and rubbed his face, obviously exhausted. "God, I can't think." He turned to look in the room at Charlie, and then back at Don and Schilling. "I'd like to go in and sit with him. If someone gets me a team roster, I'll try to pick out the names on the football."

Don shook his head. "No, Dad, don't worry about it now. We'll figure it out later."

He dialed David on his cell phone and told him what had happened, and about the man with the gift bag, and told him to watch for him. Then he sat with his father and Mary and the doctors, watching, waiting for the information on the morphine pump to come back, his heart beating faster, the more Charlie's slowed. Waiting for the Naloxone to work, wondering what would happen if it didn't…

The information came back from the lab – Charlie had gotten about a quarter of what was in the pump, Schilling told them. "Not as bad as we thought, but still a lot for him to handle; his system isn't metabolizing as it should. Still it helps us – we will know how much more Naloxone to give him."

They went back to sitting, Don staring at the thin, still form in the bed, willing him to breathe, a little more quickly, a little more deeply. He felt helpless, waiting, and he tried not to think about doing this again, if Donna Bainbridge's antidote didn't work…

Finally, the man in scrubs heaved a sigh, and said, "I think he's out of the woods. His respirations are nearly up to what they were prior to him getting the overdose. He'll probably wake up soon. If his situation should change, call me." He walked out, with a brief nod at Alan's heartfelt thanks, and it occurred to Don that the man had likely just saved his brother's life, and he didn't even know his name. He hadn't thought to ask, until it was too late. He rubbed his face; he was tired, and wasn't thinking straight.

He looked at his watch; it read one-thirty a.m. – they had been up there for an hour. He looked at Schilling. "I'd like to move him, if we could. There was an empty room just off the ER, next to the lab we set up downstairs. It would be easier to keep a watch on both of them if they were close together. Can we put Charlie in that room, next to the lab?"

Schilling cocked his head, considering. "I suppose so. It is used to hold patients that have been admitted from the ER while they are being assigned a room. It is completely equipped. I'll look into it."

There was a soft moan from the bed and they turned to look. Charlie's eyes fluttered open; the pinpoint pupils had widened to a more normal diameter. He blinked at them sleepily over the oxygen mask; Don could see the question in his eyes at the sight of them all there, but he was too tired or too groggy to speak, and he closed his eyes again.

A half hour later, they were downstairs. Charlie was being set up in the room adjacent to the lab. Megan was just through the double doors, in the ER itself, watching for anyone suspicious trying to make their way through the ER to the hallway. Colby was stationed down at the other end of the hallway, where it branched out – radiology to the left and the main labs to the right, keeping watch down both hallways. David had parked himself right outside the doors to the lab and to Charlie's room, and Don stepped over to his side.

"Everything okay?" David asked, with a nod at Charlie. They could see him through the doorway, sleeping, as the hospital staff bustled around him, hooking up monitors and hanging his IV. Don had called a cab for Alan and sent him home to sleep; his father was clearly exhausted – too exhausted to drive safely, and the latest scare had seemed to take a toll on him.

"Yeah, it is now." Don gave him a short synopsis of what happened, then said, "That man who walked down the hallway, just before I went up to see Charlie – did you get a look at him? We think he might be the same guy who was in Charlie's room."

David shook his head. "I didn't. My back was to him, but when you called down a little bit ago, I went and told Megan and Colby, and Colby said he saw him – said he'd recognize him again. We've all got the description though, and we've been watching. No one's come through here except for one patient and an orderly from the ER. I talked to Merrick – he's getting hold of LAPD and they're calling in some officers on overtime to set up a watch. They'll be here in about an hour, maybe less."

"Good." Don nodded. "We can cover for that long." It was the first wrong statement he would make.

He stepped into the lab and as he approached Donna Bainbridge, she glanced up at him. "We're making good progress," she said quietly, indicating a set of vials and equipment in front of her. I have the first steps done – those vials need to go in a centrifuge for an hour and a half, and then I have just few more steps before I have something for a trial. We're ahead of schedule. When we get the vials out of the centrifuge, we'll get a blood sample from Charlie while I finish up the last steps, then apply the first batch of antidote to the blood sample, and get a look at it. It should tell us how well it's working, and how much we'll need to give him." She nodded at a lab technician as he picked up the rack of vials. "He's taking those down to the main lab to the centrifuge." She looked at Don apologetically. "I'm starving, and I'll bet you are too. We've got at least an hour while those vials go through the centrifuge and I think someone from the hospital ordered sandwiches. Do you want one?"

Don couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten, and his stomach lurched painfully at the thought of food. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, that sounds good."

* * *

><p>Jackie Gruselli stood next to his car and stepped forward as Rocky swung into the parking lot a block from the hospital. The lot was surrounded by shrubs and trees and deserted that time of night; and better yet, it was too small and the building in front of it too nondescript to warrant any cameras. Rocky was wearing a long dark trench coat and he tossed one to Jackie.<p>

"Did you get the stuff?"

"Yeah," said Rocky, as he opened the trunk. He lifted two water bottles with cloth stoppers carefully out of a box and handed them to Gruselli, who had shrugged on his trench coat.

Gruselli put them into the deep inside pockets of the coat, and then took two more from Rocky along with a lighter and a bandanna, and stowed them as well. "Did you fill these bottles like I told you?"

"Yeah, they're ready."

"What are you carrying?"

Rocky showed him – two semi-automatic nine millimeters, and Gruselli said, "Okay, but take this, too," and went and pulled out a MAC-10 from his trunk. "It can fire 1000 rounds a minute," he said. "Don't use it unless you gotta. Keep it as back up. You got your cell phone? Give me your number."

They exchanged numbers, and then Gruselli said, "Here's the plan. I'll drive back to the ER entrance and drop you off. You wait outside five minutes – have a smoke or something, like you're waiting for someone. Make sure you wait five minutes. When you go in, put the bandanna on to cover your face and you'll head straight back through the ER, past the receptionist, through the front ER doors, all the way to the back. The receptionist will probably freak and maybe call security when she sees you, but just keep going - you'll probably be done with what you're doing by the time they get there. When you get to the back, there are two doors that lead out into a hallway that leads into the rest of the hospital. Once you go through those, you're in a hallway. The first room to your left is just a room for a patient, but the very next one is a small lab, and that's where she's at."

"I don't want you to go through those doors, though – I don't want you to leave the ER. There are agents on the other side – and you'd better keep your wits around you in the ER, because they might have an agent there, too. If you see any agents in the ER and they try to stop you, take them out. Don't hesitate. Surprise is on your side, but only for a second. Then you need to jam those two doors. They have U-shaped metal handles. Did you bring the lock?"

Rocky nodded, reached in his trench coat in a deep inside pocket and pulled out a bike lock – the type with a long solid U-shaped bar. Gruselli nodded. "Perfect. Run that through the handles and lock those two doors. There was a spare gurney parked near them when I went through. Pull it over by the door, toss a couple of the Molotov cocktails on it and light them on fire. It will clear out the ER, and keep any hospital security occupied – and make it hard for anyone to deal with that lock without dealing with the fire first. You turn around and go right out with the crowd – try to slip away in the confusion, but if any security guard tries to stop you, take them out. Then run around to the front of the hospital and wait for me by the car – I'll leave it parked on the curb. If you see Eppes or Bainbridge run out through the front, take care of them – but I don't think they'll get that far."

Rocky looked at him. "What are you gonna do?"

Gruselli smiled. "While you're taking your five-minute smoke break, I'm gonna drive around to the front entrance and go in that way. When I get back to the hallway – there's a cross hallway that leads to the main lab and radiology, and then that short hallway where she is – I'm gonna toss a couple of cocktails in that cross hallway and start a fire. If there are any agents that way, they'll come running my direction – and I'll take them out. Eppes and Bainbridge will be trapped in that short hallway – they won't be able to go back out the ER because you'll have the doors locked. The smoke and fire in the ER should flush them out toward me, and I'll just pick them off – but if it doesn't, I'll head down the hallway and get them. If they should get past me somehow and get out the front, you take them out. When I get them, I'll run back out the front, we'll hop in my car, and go. Got it?"

"Yeah," said Rocky. "Yeah, sure." He was trying to look nonchalant, but Gruselli noted with satisfaction that he looked a little freaked – and Rocky was no rookie. Gruselli liked mayhem – the more destruction and death the better, and so if Rocky was freaked, he figured he had a good plan. It would create mass confusion in the hospital, which was what he wanted, but it was relatively simple to carry out.

He grinned, and pulled another MAC-10 from his backseat, then walked around and got in the driver's seat. "Okay, then, let's go."

* * *

><p>With an hour break the lab technicians dispersed, and it was just Don and Donna in the lab. With David just outside in the hallway, Don allowed himself to relax, just a bit. He had reloaded his Glock, and he knew his team was on watch. He and Donna stood near the main doorway to keep their food away from the work tables and munched on sandwiches, and Don told Donna about the man upstairs and what had happened to Charlie. He saw the concern in her face, and he got the distinct impression it wasn't only for her own safety. He was warming toward her, and he asked her about herself, where she was from, her studies and other trivia, just to hear her voice and watch her face when she talked. They finished their sandwiches and she said, "So do you think that man will come back?"<p>

Don shook his head. "Not here, anyway. I'm sure he saw us standing there – I doubt he'd take on a bunch of agents. That's why I moved Charlie down here – I figured he'd be safer." Just like that, he made his second and third wrong statements, in a matter of minutes.

And it was just a matter of minutes later that they heard the unmistakable pop-pop-pop of gunfire from the ER.

* * *

><p>End, Chapter 25<p> 


	26. Chapter 26

Camouflage

Chapter 26

Megan Reeves, stationed in the ER, made another round through the corridors – or the portion of them that she could traverse without straying too far from the double doors at her back. The ER had two longer passages down either wall that were connected by two shorter cross hallways. One of the longer passages, after a slight turn, led straight toward the ER entrance and was the most direct route from the entrance to where she was. She could see a good way down that hallway – not all the way to the ER entrance because of the turn, but she could see most of it. Someone coming in, however, could go up the other long passage that ran parallel to it and then cut across the last shorter hallway. If they did that, they would suddenly turn the corner and be face to face to with Megan and the rear entrance. She didn't like surprises, so she kept walking up the hallway from the doors to the cross hallway and checking it periodically.

She'd gotten a few looks from the patients and their families in the ER bays – she was still wearing her Kevlar vest under her jacket, which was emblazoned with 'FBI' – but the hospital staff gave her little more than a glance. Law enforcement officers were not an uncommon sight in the ER; they sometimes came in to question injured victims, or as escorts for injured suspects. It was late – or early – in the wee hours of the morning, but there were several patients. A big ER like the one at UCLA Medical Center never slept.

She strolled down the long passage and hung a right into the short cross hallway – just enough to see that it was clear, did a U-turn and took a quick glance either way – to the left at the end doors, just a few yards away, and to the right down the long passage to the turn. All clear. She turned and ambled toward the back doors to take up watch there again.

She took a few steps back toward the doors and wasn't quite sure what made her turn and look behind her, but she did – just a little too late. Someone had materialized at the other end of the longer passage – a man had come around the bend. She had just a split second to register the long trench coat and the mask, and then the gun, coming up at her. She swung around to face him, reached for her piece and got it un-holstered when three rounds hit her in the chest. Her chest felt as though it was exploding; her gun fell from nerveless fingers and she lurched sideways into the wall, hitting her head, and went down.

Her head had hit hard, and her surroundings were growing hazy as she vainly tried to catch her breath. She was dimly aware of the man striding toward her, his trench coat flapping, his gun still in his hand, and she was sure he was going to stop and finish the job but he strode right past her to the doors. There was a rattle at the doors; then the squeak of gurney wheels. She heard another shot, then the sound of glass breaking and a soft whoosh, and then another whoosh, but she had no strength to turn her head to see what it was. She caught the faint whiff of smoke just before she blacked out.

* * *

><p>Colby Granger had served in Afghanistan, and even though he was the furthest away from the ER, down the hallway outside the lab keeping watch at the other end, he was the first to react to the sound of gunfire, charging back down the hallway so fast that he caught up with David, who was stationed outside the lab and Charlie's new room, near the double doors to the ER. Don rushed out of the lab doorway to Colby's right and drew his Glock, but stayed in the doorway, keeping Donna behind him and an eye on Charlie in the room next door as all three of them faced the ER doors.<p>

The double doors that led to the ER were solid metal, but they each had a small square glass pane in them about head-high, and Colby ducked up against one of them, and then took a quick peek through the pane. He instantly ducked back down as a bullet shattered the pane, and he and David crouched down into firing positions, their guns trained on the doors. They could hear the screams of patients in the ER, then a soft whoosh, and then another, and then – nothing but the clamor of fleeing patients and the staff assisting them, growing more distant as they retreated.

Colby rose from his crouch and chanced another peek through the little window, and his blood stopped cold. Flames were licking upward toward the other side of the pane from a fire just below it, and a man in a long trench coat was sprinting down the ER hallway away from them. He couldn't see what was burning on the other side; it was too close to the door, but he could see the figure crumpled on the floor beyond the shooting flames. "Megan!" he exclaimed, whirling to face David and Don, who were standing a few feet back, still guarding the doorways to the rooms. "She's down!" He immediately put his shoulder into the door; it rattled and gave slightly, but refused to open. The flames were licking higher; they could see them through the little panes at the top of the doors.

Colby turned. "I'm going around to the other side!" he flung back over his shoulder, as he began a sprint down the hallway.

Don waved him on. "Go!" he yelled.

* * *

><p>Charlie blinked. The pain was back, slowly pulling him out of oblivion and back into consciousness. He wasn't aware that they had stopped his morphine drip entirely after his overdose, and that action, combined with the antidote they had given him, had driven the morphine almost entirely out of his system. All he knew was that pain was back, gripping his upper abdomen, worse than before.<p>

He frowned in confusion; he heard a strange loud pop-pop-pop to his right, and simultaneously, he realized that he was in a different room. Then he vaguely remembered being moved, but he couldn't remember why. His bed faced the hallway and he could see out into it through the doorway, which was set in the far wall of the room near the corner to his left. The hallway was empty, but at the popping sound, Charlie could see David and Don rushing into view just outside his door, and then Colby charged past them, past his doorway and out of sight. He could hear shouts and screams in the distance, and then another pop and the sound of glass shattering close by, and then terse conversation out in the hallway – Colby talking excitedly. Colby ran back past the doorway, and Don waved him on, yelling, "Go!"

Charlie frowned, his heart beating faster as he saw Don gesture urgently to David, both of them framed in his doorway. Smoke was filtering into the hallway; Charlie could see it thickening. Charlie heard Don say clearly, "Get her out of here – we need to get out of this hallway before they trap us down here. Move – now! I'll take care of Charlie." As he spoke, Charlie saw Donna Bainbridge move into view in the hallway, apparently stepping out from a room next door. She looked scared, and David took her by the arm, but before they could move, a shot came from down the hallway – this time from the left, from the same direction Colby had gone. They immediately ducked into Charlie's room, which was closest, pushing Donna into the corner to Charlie's right, and then David and Don ducked into a crouch against the far wall in front of her, Don just a few feet from the door, David just behind him, both with their guns out.

Don turned and looked at him, his face tense, and seeing he was conscious, spoke quietly. "Charlie, if someone comes and looks in the doorway, pretend you're asleep. We want them to think there's no one in here but you. When you see them, open your eyes wide – that will be the signal. I'll swing around and take them out."

Charlie was still wearing his oxygen mask, so he nodded to show that he understood. He knew there was no time to get him out of that bed and unhooked from the IV stand and the monitor and out of sight with the others, so he closed his eyes to slits, watching for movement at the doorway, his heart pounding.

* * *

><p>Jackie Gruselli ran down the hallway in a crouch, his gun in front of him. He knew that his partner, Rocky, would already be entering the ER about the same time, to block off the ER doors.<p>

Moments before, after dropping off Rocky at the ER, Jackie had driven around to the other side of the hospital and parked his car in front of the main hospital entrance, tied his bandanna over his face, and had run through the front doors, trench coat flapping, gun in hand. It was late and there were only three people in the lobby; his entrance had prompted screams from them and they scurried for cover. He ignored them, heading straight back toward the labs and radiology.

The main hallway he was in stopped at a cross corridor and he went left. He could have gone either way – either hallway wound around the block of rooms in front of him and then met up again on the other side of the block, forming a square. The short hallway where Bainbridge was working was directly opposite where he was now, on the other side of the section of rooms in front of him, and he had to go around one side or the other to get there. The left hallway wound past the main labs; the right, past radiology. He had been through the main labs earlier and was more familiar with that side, so he chose left, and as he ran, he lit a Molotov cocktail and tossed it onto a sofa that sat in the hallway, and then rounded the corner to his right and lit another one, tossing it into a cart full of linens that was parked near a utility closet. He could see the linens burst into flame as he passed. As he approached the end of the hallway he slowed; as soon as he turned the corner he would be in the hallway that formed a T with his destination, the short hallway. There was sure to be an agent stationed there, and Gruselli slunk along the wall, just short of the corner, then paused.

He was just about to chance a look around the corner when he heard the gunfire down at the other end, in the ER. There was the sound of running feet, fading away – he surmised it was an agent, running toward the sound of the gun, and a quick look around the corner confirmed that this part of the hallway was now empty – the agent who had apparently been stationed there had just sprinted back down the short hallway toward the ER. Just across from Gruselli was a waiting area for the main lab. He lit his remaining two Molotov cocktails and tossed them onto the carpet among the chairs; the furniture would make excellent fodder for the flames. The smoke would provide cover.

He heard another shot and the sound of splintering glass, and he looked for a place to conceal himself. This was happening just seconds too fast – there was not enough smoke yet to hide him, and he knew that the agents would be coming back the other way once they realized the doors to the ER were locked. Sure enough, he could hear the sound of running feet, and he was forced to back up and retreat the way he had come, taking cover in the utility closet near the burning cart full of linens. He had just ducked inside it when one of the agents came pounding down the hallway, hell-bent on getting outside and around to the ER side of the building, where the shooting had taken place. Jackie considered taking him out, but the sound of the gun would alert the rest of them. He let the agent go – he was undoubtedly on his way to the other side of the hospital, and in seconds would be gone, and not a threat. The sound of the feet faded away.

A second or two later, he made his way out of the closet and back down the hallway around the corner and back past the waiting area. The carpet and one of the chairs was burning; it stunk, and thick gray smoke was snaking down the hallway. He made it to the corner of the short hallway that contained the small lab, and peered around it.

The gathering smoke obscured his view somewhat, but he could see the object of his hunt at the other end of the hallway, Donna Bainbridge herself, standing with the agents outside the door to the lab. He took a shot, aiming carefully, but it was a long distance for a handgun and he missed, and swore to himself. Bainbridge and the agents flinched, glancing back down the hallway, and as Gruselli ducked back around the corner, getting out of sight in case the agents fired back, he saw them dive through the doorway. He smiled to himself. He would wait just a moment for the smoke to thicken a bit, and then make his way down to the lab. They would be trapped in there. At the doorway, he would hold a commanding position – he could pop into the doorway with the automatic and spray the room with bullets. He pulled the MAC 10 out from its holster under his trench coat, and taking a quick look around the corner, began to head down the hallway in a low, crouching run.

* * *

><p>Rocky Dellarocco ran back out through the ER, which had rapidly emptied. There were a few nurses and technicians still pushing some of the sicker patients out on gurneys, and they screamed and veered away as he ran past them. He wasn't sure if he'd killed the woman agent, and he didn't care one way or another. She wasn't moving, that was sure. He would prefer not to kill anyone, if he could help it – not out of any shred of decency, but out of practicality. Get the job done with the minimum amount of waste, the minimum amount of carnage, was his motto. Not like freaking Gruselli, who was probably looking for a reason to light up the place with his MAC 10.<p>

He was almost out clean when a security guard popped out in front of him, a Taser extended, and Rocky let off a couple of shots, hitting him right in the chest. "Damn," he muttered as he ran past the man, who had sunk to the floor, his eyes bulging in shock, his jaw already slack.

Outside, Rocky turned and ran along the side of the building, stripping off his trench coat and bandana and rolling them under his arm, tucking his guns under the shorter jacket he wore underneath. Without the long coat and bandana, he would blend in with the crowd that was scattering through the parking lot in the darkness. It was a good move; as he rounded the corner of the hospital one of the agents went sprinting right past him – undoubtedly one of the agents from the hallway, on his way to help his downed partner. Maybe even the guy that Rocky had shot at, when he saw him peering through the pane of glass in the doorway. He looked familiar – like one of the agents who had been investigating the team. Granger, he thought.

Rocky ran on, heading for the front entrance, and Gruselli's car.

* * *

><p>Don waited in tense silence, swallowing, trying to keep his throat moist as the acrid smoke filtered into the room, trying not to cough and give himself away. He kept his eyes on Charlie, waiting for the signal, wondering if he should dash over to his bed and try to get him out of it and over with the rest of them, up against the wall. If he did and their attackers came and caught him at it, it would eliminate any chance of surprising them. He knew, logically, he should stay put – that their best chance of survival lay with this ruse, but emotionally, he found it nearly unbearable. Charlie was a sitting duck, laying there in the open – with only a split second and Don's reaction time between him and death. Of course, depending on how many attackers there were, they were perhaps all dead, even if Don got the first man or two in the doorway.<p>

There was a nearby burst of gunfire, and Don's heart jumped in his mouth. For a moment he stared wildly at Charlie, searching for blood on the white sheets. Charlie, whose eyes had opened wide over his oxygen mask, stared back at him. At about the same time, Don realized that the shooting had come from next door, in the lab. Then David went sprinting past him out the door, and Don bit off an exclamation. He had no idea what his agent was doing, but calling after him certainly wasn't going to help – he might alert someone outside in the hallway.

The gunfire stopped, and then there was the thunk of a heavy metal door. Don leapt to his feet. David ran back in, panting, holding up a key. "The staff gave me a key to the lab – as soon I heard the gunfire next door I realized they were in there. I didn't get a good look, but I think it's only one guy. He must have thought we ducked into the lab. I locked him in. I figured that was a better bet than trying to face down his artillery." As he spoke, the gunfire started again in the room next door. "He's probably trying to shoot his way out – it's a metal door but we don't have much time – he's got some kind of machine pistol."

Don nodded. "Good work; I need you to take Donna and get her out of here. Be careful – we know there is at least one more of them in the ER. I'll get Charlie – go!"

David nodded and he held out a hand to Donna, and they were gone, sprinting down the hallway, lost in the smoke at the end of it. The gunfire started again – the man in the room next door was obviously still trying to shoot his way out. Don darted over to Charlie, surveying his attachments – an IV bag, hanging on a stand, wires from a monitor snaking into the top of his gown; his oxygen mask, attached to a tank. The wires had to come off – and unfortunately, so did the oxygen; not only was the tank too bulky to carry, but oxygen was flammable. Not the best thing to be attached to in a fire. Don stared at the IV for a split second – he couldn't figure out how to remove the bag, but he could probably carry that without an issue.

"Charlie, we need to get out of here," he said. "I need to take off those wires on your chest and take off your oxygen. Can you walk?"

Charlie pulled the oxygen mask over his head. He looked scared. "I'll try," he said, pulling at the wires on his chest. Don reached over to help him, wincing in sympathy as he felt the adhesive pads give under Charlie's gown. Charlie's monitor instantly started whining and Don stared at it a moment, trying to figure out how to shut it off, and then gave up. The whine droned on as Don detached the IV bag from its stand and put an arm around Charlie's shoulders, helping him sit up, and grabbed the IV bag with his other hand. He heard the firing stop for a second, then start again. The door to the lab was metal, it was true, but with enough ammunition eventually the man could shoot out the frame around the lock.

As Charlie sat up, he went pure white and beads of sweat stood out on his forehead, but he managed to swing his legs over the side and stand up. As soon as he gained his feet, however, he swayed, and his eyes rolled back in his head. Don tossed the IV bag back on the bed and caught him as he slumped. There was no way that Charlie was walking out of there. Don held his brother with one arm, and reached over to the bed and pulled the sheet flat, then lifted Charlie and laid him on it. It was frightening easy to move him – Charlie was emaciated. Don swallowed a lump in his throat as his brother stirred and moaned, his eyes fluttering open again now that his head was level with his feet. "Charlie – it's okay, buddy. I'm gonna wrap you and your IV in this sheet and carry you out – okay? We've got to hurry." Charlie looked back at him, dazed; blinking – Don wasn't sure if he understood or not.

He managed to roll up Charlie in the sheet along with his IV bag, leaving his arms free, and then gently pulled him up and over his good shoulder, wincing at the pull in his injured arm. He heard a muffled groan and he knew the position was probably painful for Charlie, but he couldn't stop to figure out how to make him more comfortable – there was no more time to wait. He ran for the door, and as he did, the wall between Charlie's room and the lab suddenly exploded in bits of plaster. The gunman had apparently decided to shoot his way through the wall instead of the door – either that or he'd heard the monitor and figured out that they might be in there. Small pieces of wall hit Don's back and shoulder, and as he lunged through the doorway, he glanced back, shuddering as he saw bullets hitting Charlie's bed. As Don ran down the hallway, he could hear the staccato bursts of gunfire, then the whine of the monitor stopped abruptly.

The sprinklers had come on, the hallway was slippery, and between the water and the smoke, visibility was only a few yards. That was good, Don thought to himself – the cover would help them. He shifted Charlie on his shoulder, and hurried toward the end of the hallway.

* * *

><p>Charlie's head was swimming; the agony of Don's shoulder pressing into his abdomen was indescribable, and he couldn't catch his breath. Don was running, and every footfall, every rise and fall of his shoulder forced air out of Charlie's lungs, and he was not breathing strongly enough to compensate. The IV bag was slipping inside the folds of the sheet, increasing the tension on the tube attached to the IV port in the back of Charlie's hand, and with every step, the taut tubing pulled at the tape, which was loosening. Charlie tried to hold his hand up to introduce some slack, but he was too weak; he could feel consciousness slipping away, and he let his hand drop, staring down at it dumbly as the tape and the cannula finally tore free. Blood spurted from the wound and dripped down his fingertips, and he gazed at the red droplets with an odd detachment as they splattered on the floor, mixing with the water from the sprinklers.<p>

* * *

><p>Jackie Gruselli was furious.<p>

His plan had been progressing perfectly, until he had burst into the wrong damned room. In retrospect, it was an honest mistake. He had seen Donna Bainbridge in that smaller lab earlier in the evening, and when he had shot at her moments ago, he could have sworn that she and the agents had darted into the lab. The quick look down the smoky hallway had been deceiving – they instead must have darted into the doorway right next door to the lab. Jackie had reached the lab and swung through the entrance, guns blazing; then as he encountered no resistance, had cautiously entered to search the room – only to hear the door slam shut behind him, and a key turn in the lock.

The door was metal and so was the door jamb, and after a few futile, enraged attempts to shoot out the lock, the sound of a monitor whining next door finally caught his attention. He figured they were gone by then, but he shot through the wall anyway, blasting it with the MAC 10 until there was a hole big enough to punch his way through. Fortunately, it was merely a partition panel with no wooden or metal studs or support beams to contend with, and after a few rounds he made a decent-sized hole. He made his way through it into the room next door and then out into the hallway, proceeding carefully in the soup of smoke and water. The hallway looked pale gray and eerie under the fluorescent ceiling lights.

He was halfway down the hall before he saw the blood spatters on the floor, a runny trail of red drops mixed with water from the sprinklers. Maybe he had hit someone after all. A smile curved his lips; he took a breath, and picked up the pace. He was intent on finding Bainbridge but above all he was angry, and in the mood for some carnage.

* * *

><p>End Chapter 26<p> 


	27. Chapter 27

Camouflage

_Author's note: Thanks for your comments - there will be two this weekend - here's the first..._

Chapter 27

Don turned left at the T in the hallway, away from the main lab and toward radiology – the smoke was too thick to his right and he could see flames through it, so left was the obvious choice. The hallways were empty – the smoke and the gunfire had driven anyone working on the first floor outside. Fire alarms were blaring. This section of hallway ran a few yards to his left and then turned to the right, and he hurried down to the end of it as fast as he could while still keeping upright on the slippery floor, and then hung another right and moved down that hallway, making his way toward the front of the building. Charlie kept slipping from his shoulder, and he had to keep shifting him to keep him balanced. Don suspected he had passed out again, but there was no time to stop to check. He was intent on getting him outside to safety, then coming back in, if necessary, to help David secure Donna Bainbridge. He had seen no sign of them; hopefully they were already outside.

At the end of the hallway there was a corner – it turned right again, and Don paused and took a cautious look around it. There was a sign on the wall in front of him that said 'Lobby' with an arrow pointing to the right but as Don peered down that hallway, he couldn't see; it was thick with smoke. He was panting; Charlie was a dead weight on his shoulder.

He hesitated for a moment. The gunfire had stopped behind them and he was sure the man in the lab was out by now, and probably in pursuit. He could be behind them, or he could have gone right where Don went left and might have come up the other side of the square, toward the lobby from the other direction. If he had, he could be waiting for them there in the wall of smoke. And Don, with Charlie draped over his shoulder, would be at a huge disadvantage – and he couldn't carry Charlie into an ambush and put him at risk. He had to check out the hallway ahead first.

He turned back to face the end of the hallway in which they stood; there was a door there, and he moved forward and tried the handle. To his surprise it gave, and he pushed inside. It was an office of some type and although it was empty, the light was still on. Someone had probably been working there before the fire alarms started and had hurried out, leaving the door unlocked. There were no sprinklers in here; it was dry, with a little less smoke. Don knelt, slid Charlie from his shoulder and gently laid him on the floor. "Charlie – wait here for me, buddy. I'm just gonna check and make sure we can get through that hallway safely, then I'll be back to get you. Charlie?"

Charlie's eyes opened, but his gaze was unfocused. He was breathing harshly and shaking; his gown and the sheet were soaking wet from the sprinklers and plastered to his gaunt frame. His hand was covered in blood, Don noticed suddenly, and then he realized that the IV had pulled out. He swore softly and unwrapped the sheet; the bag lay there, unattached, useless. He had carted the damned thing along, when what he should have taken was the oxygen. It was apparent that Charlie was having a frighteningly difficult time getting air. All the more reason to let him rest here a moment, but his dire condition was making Don's resolve melt into panic. He forced the fear down and gave Charlie's shoulder a squeeze. "I'll be back in a minute."

By this time, Charlie seemed to be slowly regaining his faculties, and although he was still breathing too hard to talk, he managed to focus on Don and give him the semblance of a nod. Don nodded back, and was out the door.

Outside, he shut the door behind him and paused to listen for a moment, but the alarms drowned out all sound of anyone who might be approaching. The hallway they had just come down was also beginning to fill with smoke. He couldn't see the end of it now either, any more than he could see the end of the hallway ahead. He gave it one more glance, then turned toward his left and began to creep toward the lobby, his gun out.

* * *

><p>Jackie Gruselli squinted at the floor, his eyes on the watery blood trail, with occasional glances up at the smoky hallway ahead of him. He was almost to the corner, and he ducked next to the wall and took a quick look around it before proceeding. It looked clear, at least as far as he could see. He took just a step or two around the corner and he stopped short, casting around for the blood trail. Nothing. Frowning, he backed up a bit and then realized that the blood trail didn't turn the corner toward the lobby; instead it headed straight ahead, toward an office door. To his right, the hallway to the lobby was shrouded in smoke.<p>

He stepped forward cautiously and listened at the door for a moment, then quietly grasping the handle with his left hand, turned it, then suddenly yanked the door open, his gun in his right hand, ready to shoot. He paused, staring, and then stepped in and quietly shut the door.

Charlie Eppes was alone in the room and he lay on the floor, his chest heaving as he fought for air, his dark eyes wide and his gaze riveted on Gruselli. Jackie strolled forward, slowly, and a smile curled his lips under his bandana. He pulled it down to reveal his face, squatted, and brushed the muzzle of his gun across the professor's forehead. It didn't matter if he saw him or not – dead men couldn't testify. "Professor," he murmured. "I thought I had taken care of you. Yet here you are, aren't you? Still alive." His voice hardened. "Where are the rest of them? Where's Bainbridge? My boss would like to know where she is."

"I don't know." The professor's voice was a soft breathless rasp. He looked bad; he was soaked to the skin and shaking with cold or fear, or both; his face chalk-white. His hand was bleeding – the source of the blood drops.

Gruselli bent down, his black eyes cold. "You can tell me," he said. "Your brother went to her, didn't he? He left you here alone in a burning building. Where did they go?" He pressed the muzzle of his gun into Charlie's forehead, a little harder this time, then suddenly released it and backhanded him across the face. Charlie gasped and his eyes lost focus for a moment, but he stayed conscious, although he didn't respond. Gruselli scowled. "You're going to die anyway. I can make it easy for you, or make it hard. Your choice."

He knelt, pinning the professor's right arm under his knee, and reached across his body for his left arm, grasping it firmly by the wrist.

* * *

><p>Don stepped quietly down the corridor, his gun ready. The visibility was near zero and to make matters worse, a nearby fire alarm was blaring and the sprinklers overhead were hissing, making it hard to hear. As he reached the hallway that led left to the lobby, in spite of the noise he heard footsteps, running hard, coming from the lobby towards him. He plastered himself against the wall just inside the corner, waiting, his gun up, and as the footsteps approached the corner he swung out, gun extended. "Stop right there! Hands up!"<p>

The figure stopped, his hands up, a dark mass in the gray smoke, and then Colby said, gasping, "Don? It's Colby!"

Don lowered his gun and stepped forward enough to see him, and Colby held up one hand, leaning forward with the other on his knee, wheezing. He choked out, "Wait a minute," then stepped over to the wall and retched. After a moment or two he recovered, and straightened. "Sorry. Haven't stopped running since I left you." His words were still punctuated by deep breaths. "Megan's okay – at least relatively speaking. I ran around the back and came in through the ER and got her out of there, carried her out to a triage area they have set up on the other side, outside the ER entrance. She took a few rounds in the Kevlar – has some bruised ribs – maybe cracked, they said. She has a concussion – she must have hit her head when she fell, but she was coming around by the time I got her out there. She's in good hands. Someone put a lock on the ER doors and lit a gurney on fire in front of them. No one's going through that way until they put out that fire and someone cuts open that lock, so I ran back around to this side. I just came in through the front." He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder.

Don frowned. "Did you see David and Donna Bainbridge on your way in?"

Colby shook his head and coughed. The smoke was getting thicker. "No. They aren't with you?"

"No." Don told him about the other gunman, and about David locking him in the lab. "I told David to get Donna out of here, and they took off while I got Charlie out of his bed. I would have thought they would have come out this way. Charlie's right around the corner – I wanted to check out this hallway before I tried to carry him through here."

There was a moment of silence as Colby assessed the word 'carry,' and then he said, "I can carry him. Let's go."

Don shook his head. "No – I'll get him – you stay here at this corner and cover me, and keep an eye on this hallway – both directions – the man might be coming from either way, and he's armed with an automatic. I'll be right back. The doorway is just a few yards down that hallway."

* * *

><p>Jackie had laid his gun down as he knelt at the professor's side; he needed both hands. He lowered his head as he applied pressure, his eyes gleaming as Charlie tried to bite back a choked cry of agony, and breathed, "You know where they took her – tell me."<p>

At the sound of the doorknob, Jackie yanked up his mask, grabbed his gun and whirled, coming up out of his crouch as the office door swung open. Don Eppes stood in the doorway, obviously stunned to see him there, and as his hand went instinctively for his weapon, Jackie shook his head, his gun leveled at Don's torso, leveled at the white letters on his windbreaker. "Don't. Pull it out slowly, and slide it across the floor toward me."

Don hesitated, and Jackie swung the MAC 10 and pointed it down toward Charlie. "Don't try anything. This thing shoots 1000 rounds a minute and it has a hair trigger. If you shoot me – even a direct hit – chances are I'll pull the trigger reflexively either before or after, and your brother will be a pile of hamburger. Do what I say. Slide your gun toward me."

Don's gaze was on his brother now, who was lying, eyes shut tight as if in pain, at Jackie's feet. There was a flash of something dark and frightening in the agent's eyes, but he slowly pulled his gun from its holster, bent, and slid it across the floor. Jackie stopped it with his foot and kicked it sideways, then switched the MAC 10 for his nine millimeter, pointing the nine millimeter at Don and flipping the safety on the MAC 10 before he holstered it. The damn thing scared even him, and he needed something with more control for his next maneuver.

He bent suddenly and grabbed the professor's hospital gown near the neck with his left arm, lifting him, the fabric straining, as the professor gasped in surprise and pain. Jackie wrapped his right arm around his body as best he could with the nine millimeter still in his right hand, then adjusted his grip with his now free left hand, pulling Charlie upright against him, and holding him there against his chest with his left arm, the gun in his right hand trained on Don. The professor slumped immediately over his arm and it was awkward to hold him, but not as difficult as Jackie had expected; the young man apparently weighed even less than he appeared to. He was going to be Jackie's ticket out of there. Jackie advanced toward the door, half dragging, half carrying him. "Step back slowly – hands up."

Don Eppes raised his hands and slowly backed out into the hallway. Jackie stepped out and eased around him, Eppes turning to face him, both of them rotating in a slow, wary dance. Jackie backed up, and Eppes pivoted, watchfully, until Jackie was out in the hallway. Charlie hung over his arm, limply, breathing raggedly, barely able to raise his head. For a split second Eppes stopped moving sideways and Jackie thought he was going to make a move, so he pre-empted it by swinging the gun toward Charlie's head, resting the muzzle on his temple. Eppes froze and then took a step back, standing still in front of the doorway. The shock that had been on his face had vanished; he had reverted from brother to agent. His face was impassive, his dark eyes expressionless and he cocked his head at Charlie, his gaze never leaving Jackie's face. "He's just going to slow you down. Leave him here and go – I won't stop you."

Jackie shook his head. He could feel Charlie's chest heaving against his arm; could hear his labored breathing. He was still fighting for consciousness, his head lolling. "I'll decide when I'm done with him. Where's Bainbridge?"

Don shrugged. "I don't know. She left with Agent Sinclair – I have no idea where they are."

Jackie scowled at him, assessing his response. Eppes might be telling the truth – there was no good way to verify what he said. It was best to cut his losses. He said, "Back up, into that office – keep your hands up."

Eppes complied, slowly backing into the doorway, and as soon as he was two steps inside the room, Jackie fired at him – three quick shots. Eppes flew backwards and fell; hitting the floor on his back. He could feel the professor tense against his arm, heard him utter a ragged cry, then shots sounded in the corridor to Jackie's right, out of the gloom. He could hear them whizzing past his head, and he dropped the professor and darted backwards, away from the bend in the hallway. Two steps put him past the edge of the corner and out of view of whoever was firing at him, and he hesitated for just a moment, wondering if he should lunge back into the end of the hallway and retrieve the professor. The sound of quickly approaching footsteps convinced him otherwise, and he turned and ran down the corridor, back toward the ER.

* * *

><p>Colby heard shots, and he dashed around the corner in the direction Don had gone. He could see figures in the hallway; he couldn't see features in the smoke but he could make out silhouettes; a man in a trench coat holding a limp figure, who had to be Charlie. Colby fired over the man's head; he couldn't chance hitting Charlie, and the man dropped his hostage and darted behind the corner. Colby rushed forward. Charlie's prone form became more clear in the smoky hallway as he got closer; Colby could hear him cry, "Don!" His voice was a rasp of agony, and as Colby reached him, he could see him trying to drag himself across the wet floor toward an open office door with his right arm, his left hand curled toward his chest. Colby shot a quick glance to his left down the other hallway, looking for the gunman, but he was nowhere in sight; he had disappeared into the thickening smoke. Charlie was still inching his way toward the doorway on his side, and Colby gently put his hands under his arms and turned him on his back, and slid him into the comparative safety of the office. Comparative, because the open door looked out into the hallway where the gunman had vanished into the smoke. But, Colby reasoned, if they couldn't see him through the smoke, he couldn't see them either – although they needed to get out of there quickly, in case he decided to come back.<p>

Inside the room, the source of Charlie's distress quickly became apparent; Don was down, lying on his back. Colby pulled Charlie near his brother, and quickly stepped over to Don's side, scanning him anxiously. No obvious blood. Don's eyes were fluttering open and he gasped for air, then groaned as Colby pulled at his windbreaker, examining the bullet holes that had pierced it. Colby had heard three shots before he'd run around the corner, and there were two places where slugs had marked Don's Kevlar vest. Where had the third shot gone?

He couldn't find any wounds on Don, who was starting to catch his breath but still couldn't speak, and after a few nervous seconds, Colby found the third shot, buried in the wall at a height that must have put it dangerously close to Don's head. Colby breathed a sigh of relief and turned to Charlie, who was lying on the floor, shaking and gasping for air, tears trailing down his cheeks, his eyes locked on his brother. He looked close to complete collapse, both physically and emotionally.

"He's okay, Charlie - he just took two in the vest," Colby hastened to assure him. "It knocks the wind out of you – he'll be okay." Charlie was another matter, he thought to himself – he looked anything but okay, and Colby's eyes narrowed as they fell on Charlie's left hand, which was curled protectively toward his chest. It had a bloody hole in the back of it; it looked as though his IV had been ripped out, but that wasn't the worst of it. Charlie's outer three fingers were swollen and deformed, splayed outward; obviously broken. There were fresh bruises on his face, and Colby's gut contracted as he realized what had happened. He swore softly to himself, and took a quick look back through the door and down the hallway, with a dark expression. He'd love to get his hands on that bastard – and the one in the ER who had shot Megan. He looked back at Charlie and his deformed hand.

Charlie followed his gaze and he subconsciously held his injured hand even closer to his chest. "He tried to get me to tell him where Bainbridge was," he explained. He had calmed a bit as he saw his brother's eyes open, but he was still shaking. He kept glancing back at his brother. His voice was low and breathless; his words broken by gasps, and Colby could see the residual terror on his face.

Don was trying to push himself up, grunting in pain. Colby tried to get him to lie down again, but Don waved him off with a grimace. "We need to get out of here," he said, his voice rough with fatigue and pain. "We need to get Charlie out of here."

Colby nodded – he couldn't argue with that. He helped Don to his feet, and then bent and lifted Charlie over his shoulder, wincing as the stitches in his shoulder pulled. Don stepped over to the side of the room and retrieved his Glock – slowly and painfully – and they made their way out into the hallway.

The fire alarm was still sounding and as they cautiously rounded the corner for the lobby, they heard voices. Figures loomed in the darkness – firefighters – and Don and Colby stopped. "Hold on!" Don bellowed, with more strength than Colby thought he had left. "You can't go in there. There's an armed gunman on the loose."

One of the figures stepped forward; and two others with him. "We can't help that," said the man, and Colby could see the fire chief's insignia on his helmet. He glanced at Don's jacket, at the large white 'FBI' on the front and gave him a nod. "Agent." The chief motioned to the two others at his side, and Colby saw that they were actually police – the firefighters had an LAPD escort. "We've got to assess the fire," the chief said. "They evacuated this floor, and we need to decide if we need to evacuate the floors above – and the longer we wait, the worse this gets. We have to go in."

Don paused, then nodded. "Just tell your men to stay together."

The chief nodded back and looked at the figure draped over Colby's shoulder. "They have triage areas set up outside, around the other side of the hospital – by the ER entrance."

* * *

><p>Outside the air felt cool and seemed blessedly sweet. Don took in deep breaths, regardless of the ache in his bruised ribs when he inhaled as he hurried alongside Colby. He was in pain; his gunshot wounds ached, and he was so exhausted he couldn't seem to think straight. The cool air began to clear his head, however, and he glanced around, taking in his surroundings. They were passing along the front of the building and there was a parking area to his left, still filled with cars – LAPD had blocked the entrances to the lot. Several fire trucks were stationed there along with a couple of LAPD cruisers, and as they made their way to the back side of the building he saw more cruisers and fire trucks in the back parking lot. That lot served the ER entrance, and several ambulances were parked there with their doors open, serving as temporary emergency rooms for the ER patients. They headed toward them, Don giving Charlie an anxious look. He had passed out again; he was limp and lifeless on Colby's shoulder.<p>

People were milling about, probably family members of the patients and maybe some hospital staff. Darkness, people, confusion. It would be easy for the perpetrators to slip away – or to hang on the outskirts of the crowd, watching for Donna Bainbridge. Don scanned the area, searching for her or David, although he was sure David would have kept her out of sight. Still, the lack of communication from his agent was troubling – he would have thought that David would call him to let him know that they were okay – if indeed they were okay. It was a good sign that the gunman who had attacked them hadn't seemed to know where Donna Bainbridge was, but there had a been at least one other shooter. And both of them were still at large.

As they approached the fleet of ambulances, Charlie's physician, Doctor Schilling, materialized out of the crowd and jogged toward them, shooting a concerned look at the figure draped over Colby's shoulder. He motioned them over to a nearby ambulance. "Thank God," he said, "there you are. I was beginning to wonder. Over here."

A cot was set up at the back of the ambulance, and someone had dragged out some of the screens that separated the bays in the ER to form a room of sorts, to provide some privacy and more importantly, to break the cool evening breeze. Light spilled out into the makeshift room from the back of the ambulance. Don shivered; he was soaked from the sprinklers and now that the adrenaline was wearing off, he could feel the chill, even through his bulky Kevlar jacket. He peered anxiously at Charlie as Colby gently laid him on the gurney with the help of a medic. Charlie was soaked also; the thin hospital gown clung to his gaunt frame, but he was still, unconscious and frighteningly motionless.

"Get that wet gown off him, get some blankets, and get some oxygen on him," Schilling commanded the medics tersely. They moved quickly around him, and Don and Colby stepped back a bit to let them work, then, as they got him under the blankets, moved closer again as Schilling assessed his patient, frowning. He looked up at Don. "What happened in there?"

Don looked again at Charlie, and in the light from the ambulance he could see a fresh welt on his brother's jaw and one on his cheekbone. "We were attacked by a gunman with an automatic weapon. We managed to get away, but I had to leave Charlie for a moment while I assessed the hallway. When I came back, the gunman was with him – he must have hit him." The thought made his blood boil.

"Charlie said that the man was trying to get him to tell him where Bainbridge was," said Colby in Don's ear. "You were still kind of groggy – I don't think you heard him."

"Okay," said Schilling, "I do see the bruises on his face, but what about his hand?"

Don frowned, and then his face registered comprehension as Schilling gently picked up Charlie's limp left hand by the wrist to examine it. "Oh – his IV got torn out when I was carrying him down the hallway - ," he stopped short, suddenly, as he got a better look at his brother's hand. The last three fingers were swollen and bent upward, rather than curled under, and Don felt his gut churn and a wave of horror pulse through his head. "Ah," he said, "Ah, God." And suddenly he couldn't stand there anymore – he had to get out, and he pushed outside the screen and staggered a few steps away, and bent over with his hands on his knees. He had left his brother, left him there to be tortured. The bastard had been breaking his fingers when Don walked in. Charlie was dying, and some of his last moments had been filled with terror and pain, and Don had enabled it by leaving his brother alone. He had never felt so overwhelmed, so inadequate.

He stayed there, bent over and just breathing, as Colby came out and laid a hand on his shoulder, as shock slowly turned into anger. Don finally straightened and looked straight ahead toward the hospital, his eyes burning, hard and black. "I'm going back in," he said. "I need to find that son of a bitch."

* * *

><p>End, Chapter 27<p> 


	28. Chapter 28

Camouflage

Chapter 28

Colby put a restraining hand on Don's shoulder. "Don, you'd better rethink that. You're hurt, you're exhausted, and the guy's packing an automatic. I heard one of the LAPD guys calling in for backup as we were leaving – they'll find him. Charlie's gonna wake up once they get that oxygen on him, and he needs you." He paused, and his voice softened. "I'm not sure you saw him in there – he almost fell apart when he thought you'd been shot. He's gonna need you to be there when he comes around." He spoke a little more firmly. "And even more importantly, we need to find David and Dr. Bainbridge and make sure they're in a safe spot."

Don stared at him, turning over what he'd said, touched by his description of his brother's reaction. He knew Colby was absolutely right – he was the agent in charge of the case and he needed to secure the scene, and secure his witness. If it had been anybody but his brother who had been subjected to that, he would have felt sympathy and some anger, but not this overwhelming rage, this irresistible urge to go in and find that bastard and break his face…

He shook his head as if to clear it, wondering where all that emotion was coming from. A year ago, Charlie could have been that 'anybody' on a gurney; basically a stranger, an acquaintance, eliciting a much more muted reaction. He pulled himself back in, back to that place, trying to distance himself again and it worked, a bit. He took a deep breath, and nodded. "You're right. I have some other things to take care of first. But if they haven't found him by the time I'm done, I'm going in after him."

He stepped back inside the screens surrounding Charlie's gurney. With the additional oxygen, Charlie had indeed come to; he was shaking under his blanket, his dark eyes huge and a little wild looking. He was breathing hard under his oxygen mask, apparently in the throes of some kind of panic attack, but he calmed a bit as his eyes connected with Don's, as if he drew some kind of strength from his brother's presence. Don stepped up to his right side and gently squeezed Charlie's good hand. "It's okay, buddy; I'm here," he said softly, "I'm okay," and Charlie shuddered once more, but finally began to relax a little; the shivering lessened, and his eyes began to droop shut.

Schilling stepped over to Don's side. "We just gave him some pain medication," he said quietly. "He was in a good deal of pain. He'll rest now. We'll bandage his hand to stabilize his fingers, and we'll get an orthopedic doctor to look at them in the morning. Which actually, is not all that far away now." He looked at Don. "When they get this cleared up and we get him back inside, I'd like to put him on a different floor."

Don flushed, thinking that the doctor was referring to his ill-fated decision to move Charlie down to the first floor so he could keep watch over him. But embarrassment turned to dread as Schilling said, "I'll put him in a regular room for now – but it's the same floor that houses our intensive care unit. It won't be hard to move him to the ICU from there if we need to." He didn't say it, but Don knew what he was implying – that Charlie's condition had deteriorated significantly.

He tried to focus on what the doctor was saying as he continued, "In the meantime, I'm going to have them put his gurney inside the ambulance – it will be warmer in there." He paused again, his tired, kind eyes assessing Don, and said, "You ought to get checked out yourself. Agent Granger said you took a couple of bullets in the vest – we should check to make sure you didn't break any ribs."

Don shook his head. "They're not broken – I know what that feels like." He looked at Schilling. "That's fine – the different floor. Do what's best for him." He looked down, back at Charlie, just in time to see his brother's dark eyes shut. Don sighed; wincing a little as the intake of air made his bruised rib cage twinge. "I need to go find the LAPD officer in charge and find Doctor Bainbridge. I'll check in on him later."

* * *

><p>Jackie Gruselli chanced a quick look out of the supply closet as the sound of boots and voices receded down the hall. He had come through the hallways and around the other side of the floor past the lab and had found himself back near the supply closet when he had heard voices, and had ducked inside the closet for the second time that night. He chanced a peek out and could see a group of firefighters disappearing in the smoke, heading toward the main lab waiting area that Jackie had set afire earlier – it was the worst of the blazes. The hallway appeared empty – at least as far as he could see in the smoke – and he slipped out and headed the other way, toward the lobby and the main entrance.<p>

He was right on top of the firefighter before he saw him. There was a lone man around the corner who had stayed behind to put out the last of the blaze on the sofa that Gruselli had ignited on the way in. He hadn't seen Jackie yet, and Jackie paused just briefly and glanced around at the empty hallways, then pulled out his switchblade. It was easy to approach him without being heard; the alarm had stopped but the man was using a heavy duty fire extinguisher, and it was noisy. Jackie stepped up behind the man and with one powerful quick movement, grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around, right into the switchblade.

He twisted the blade, forcing it up into the chest cavity, watching the man's face go frozen with shock as the fire extinguisher clattered to the floor. He was young, no more than twenty, Jackie guessed, as he watched the life fade from his eyes. Gruselli let the body slump to the floor, wiped off the switchblade on the young man's shirt, and took his helmet, his boots and the long coat and put them on right over what he was wearing, stuffing his shoes into the deep pockets of the coat, along with his knife and the bandana that had been covering his face and his hat. Then he took a deep breath and walked down the hall, made a right, and went through the lobby past two LAPD officers, and out into the parking lot. As he had hoped, all they saw was a firefighter, and they gave him a nod as he passed.

Outside, he paused for a moment, and his heart thumped as he saw the empty spot at the curb where his car had been. That damned Rocky – had he taken his car? Then he looked at the entrances to the lot – blocked by LAPD cars and officers, and looked at all of the cars still in the lot. Officers were going through the vehicles that were occupied and questioning the drivers, one by one. Had Rocky moved the car to the lot? Was he sitting there, waiting to be questioned?

Gruselli pulled out his cell phone and dialed Rocky and began walking, up through the lot, toward the fire trucks, scanning the cars. "Where in the hell are you?" he hissed, when Rocky answered.

"_I'm two blocks away, at our first meeting place_," said Rocky. "_I waited for you, but when I saw LAPD start to show up, I got the car the hell out of there_."

"Good thinking," grunted Gruselli. "Okay, I'll see you in a few minutes."

"_Did you get her?"_

"No. And there's too many cops around now – we'll have to step back and rethink this."

He angled toward the fire trucks lined up at the side of the lot that were waiting for the all-clear or waiting for deployment, depending on the severity of the fire. Rocky headed toward them but not quite at them, making it look like he was heading for one at the back of the group, closest to the parking lot entrance. In his fire gear, no one gave him a second glance. He made it to the back truck, which sat just a few yards away from the shrubs that made up the landscaping along the street. He turned and looked back across the lot toward the hospital. If he saw Bainbridge now, he wouldn't be able to do anything about it – there were too many witnesses, too many cops.

There was a shout – a fireman dashed out of the hospital entrance, screaming for a doctor – they had obviously found the stabbed firefighter. Everyone turned to look, and when he was sure no one was watching him, Gruselli stepped backwards and slipped through the shrubs, easing off the fireman's coat and hat behind a tall cedar, along with his own long coat, pulling his knife, shoes and bandana and hat out of the coat pockets and stuffing all of the items but the shoes and his long trench coat in his own jacket. Then he put his shoes and the trench coat under his arm and stepped out of the bushes and strode down the sidewalk, blocked from the view of the people in the hospital parking lot by a row of hedges, until he was away from the hospital entrance. He wanted to be on pavement before he changed his shoes – no sense leaving his shoe prints in the soft earth among the bushes. The street was dark but there was a streetlight or two, and he waited until he was in a dark spot before he quickly took off the firefighter's boots and put on his shoes, and tossed the boots behind a bush. Then he started walking, and didn't stop until he got to the lot where Rocky was waiting for him. There was no one the streets that time of night, and the driver of the one car that passed him didn't notice him - he had his eyes glued on the flashing lights halfway up the block.

Rocky was standing by his car, and he looked at him as Jackie strode up. "We need to go," he said. "The boss wants to talk to us."

* * *

><p>Don strode out from the makeshift triage enclosure, Colby keeping pace; Don suspected that the junior agent wasn't going to let him out of his sight in case Don tried to do anything stupid, like dash into a burning building after a madman who carried an automatic weapon. Don had to fight the inclination to do just that – but the thought of Charlie, spent and in pain on the gurney, kept him focused. Charlie still needed that antidote. He needed to find David and Donna Bainbridge and make sure they were safe. He tried David's cell phone again as he walked – no answer.<p>

He hadn't gotten far when he saw two figures striding towards them, and even in the darkness they looked familiar. The head of LAPD, Chief Sam Winston, and Don's own boss, FBI Assistant Director Merrick. Don kept walking toward them, but his footsteps slowed just a bit. He didn't have time to report out to the boss – and he was far from having the scene under control, so it wasn't the optimal time to stop and make a report.

As he reached them they halted, facing each other, and Sam Winston nodded. "Agents."

Merrick said, "Sam and I were on the phone discussing your request for an LAPD guard when the calls started coming in about gunmen at the hospital. What's the status?"

Don nodded back at Sam and looked at Merrick. "I just came out from inside. Megan and Charlie were hurt, but not critically – they're back there," he indicated the triage area behind him with a jerk of his head. "When the shooting started, Megan went down. Colby went to help her, David took Donna Bainbridge and got her out of the lab area – I took Charlie. We got separated – I haven't found either David or Bainbridge yet – but we really haven't had a chance to look. It happened pretty fast. I just now got Charlie out of there, myself. We were just heading back in."

Merrick nodded, and Don pushed on. "There were at least two of them. One came in through the ER and jammed the inside doors, and started a fire. That blocked one of our escape routes."

Colby interjected. "That suspect shot Agent Reeves – she took a couple in the vest and hit her head when she went down. I ran around and got her out – the docs looked her over – she has a concussion and maybe some cracked or bruised ribs, but they said she'd be okay."

Winston frowned. "When you went in after her, did you see the suspect?"

Colby shook his head. "There were a lot of people streaming out, and some of the medics and security working their way back in. It was mass confusion, lots of smoke. No."

"The other man came in through the front entrance, and started a couple more fires on his way in," said Don. "He was banking on the fact that we would be trapped in the hallway next to the ER, and he came in with an automatic pistol. I'm certain he was after Bainbridge, but he wasn't worried about collateral damage – I'm sure he planned to take us all out. He charged into the room next to Charlie's, the lab, thinking we were there, but we were next door, in Charlie's room. David locked him in the lab – the staff had given him a key. It bought us enough time to get down the hallway, but by then the smoke was pretty thick. I was slowed down a bit by Charlie – by the time I got him out of his room I couldn't see David and Bainbridge in the smoke. I have no idea where they went, and David isn't answering his cell phone."

"So they could still be in there," said Merrick. "And so could our suspect with the automatic."

Don nodded. "Colby and I were on our way back in. The place is full of LAPD and firemen, now, to boot. The second suspect shot his way out of the lab – he could be anywhere inside. Or maybe even outside, by this time. The first one from the ER could still be around, too – we don't know."

Winston nodded. "Okay," he said. "I have men inside – I'm going to brief them." He gave Merrick a nod and trotted off, pulling out his cell phone.

Merrick looked at Colby. "I need a progress report on Reeves – I have to report in. You know where she is?"

Colby nodded. "Yes."

"Run and get an update and meet us back here." Colby shot Don a quick glance, and Don nodded, so Colby turned and trotted off, back toward the ambulances.

Don had a suspicion that Merrick had sent him off for a reason and he tensed slightly as his boss spoke, quietly. "Don, I've been trying to lay low and dodge the calls from D.C., but our superiors reached me this evening. You're being taken off this case."

Don opened his mouth to protest, but Merrick held up a hand. "Not all cases – no one's asking you to turn in your gun – you just are not allowed to work this one."

Don bit back frustration, and tried to speak calmly. "Which one?"

Merrick stared at him. "The Ansel Stevenson case. You can still work the Warriors case, and any others you're handling. They've deemed that you're just too close to the Stevenson case, considering your brother's situation." His eyes narrowed, and he searched Don's face. "What?"

Don swallowed and looked away. He could lie, or just omit the connection between the two cases, to keep his foot in the door… He looked back at Merrick. The man had stood up for him, as much as he could. Don had to tell him. "They're connected," he said. "The Warriors case and the Stevenson case. Donna Bainbridge said that one of the men who came to the lab is on the Warrior's staff. She doesn't know his name, but she saw him on television on the sidelines at yesterday's game. She said he had been coming to the lab to meet with Stevenson, and leaving with small boxes. She saw him and another man come in the night that Stevenson was shot. She wasn't sure which one actually did the shooting – but it was one of them."

"A Warrior's staff member picking up small boxes at Stevenson's lab," said Merrick, slowly. "Steroids?"

Don nodded. "I think so. Probably masked by the same chemical that is masking the poison they gave Charlie. Bainbridge said that they nicknamed it 'Camouflage.' It has the ability to hide whatever drug is being injected along with it."

Merrick was silent for a long moment. "Then I have no choice," he said, heavily. "I'm sorry, Don, I have to remove you from that case also, since they seem to be connected." He paused. "I need you to stand down – you can stay here, but you're off duty. Go be with your brother." His eyes flicked down to the holes in Don's vest, visible in the dim light, and to his arm and leg, where bits of bandage peeked out from the holes in his clothing. "It looks like you've had a rough night. I'm sure I haven't heard half of the story yet. Colby and I will find Sinclair and Bainbridge – you're off duty. Get your injuries checked out and get some rest, and when you're able, report back at the office. We'll need your full report on what happened tonight."

Colby came trotting back up at that moment, and Merrick turned back toward the hospital and waved him to follow. Colby shot Don an uncertain look, but Don waved him on and the junior agent hurried to catch up with Merrick. Don stood there, watching them stride away.

* * *

><p>Rocky and Jackie met Murciano at a downtown office, away from the stadium. The building was dark, vacant for the night, and Murciano let them in at a back door and led the way down a short hallway to a small office. Gruselli and Rocky stumped in, wearily, and took seats – Rocky subdued, Jackie with a lazy swagger.<p>

"Well?" demanded Murciano, who had taken the seat of command behind a worn desk. Rocky could see a poster on the wall – the place was some kind of small independent insurance agency. Knowing Murciano, probably some kind of front for something else. "What happened?"

They looked at each other, then Jackie shook his head. He scowled and spat out a few swear words. "We didn't get her. We didn't get shit. Ended up killing a guard and a fireman and maybe that woman FBI agent on top of it all. It was a disaster."

Rocky looked at Jackie, then back at Murciano. "But we will. Get her. She has to come out of there sometime – we'll go back and wait."

Murciano made a face. "And what? Shoot her in broad daylight, with a million cops around?"

Jackie spoke again; his voice had softened, and when Rocky looked at him, he saw that Jackie was smiling. "We don't have to," said Jackie, and he licked his lips. He looked like evil incarnate, and Rocky shivered. "It came to me on the way back here. All we need to do is break the connection. What's she got on us? Nothing – except our buddy Frank. She can ID him. If we take out Frank; they're at a dead end. She can even ID his body – but they won't get anywhere if they can't question him. None of it will matter."

"It will look suspicious," said Rocky.

"It can look suspicious as hell," said Jackie, "but there won't be anything they can do about it. They'll have no way to make a connection to Mr. Murciano, or to us, without testimony from Frank. We can hope he'll keep his mouth shut, or we can be sure." He looked at Murciano. "If we take him down, Rocky and I can get the hell out of town, and the case will stall. Then, sometime later when things have died down, we come back for Bainbridge and get her to cough up the research materials. They can't watch her forever."

Murciano ran a hand over his face; he looked tired, Rocky thought. They all did. "Okay," said Murciano heavily. "We don't have a choice. Get it done – quickly – and then get out of L.A. for a while, maybe back east, or Chicago. But stay in the country. I may need you back in a hurry."

* * *

><p>They met Frank forty minutes later only a half mile away from the little office, in a vacant lot. It was an easy matter to get him there; Rocky had called him and told him that the situation at the hospital had gone bad, and that Murciano wanted to meet with them immediately. When Rocky and Jackie pulled up Frank was already there sitting in his car, his fingers drumming nervously on the steering wheel. He got out when they did and met them halfway between the two parked cars. "Where's the boss?"<p>

"He's on his way," said Jackie easily. He was watching Frank with slightly amused interest, chewing lazily on a piece of gum. Rocky knew that he had his nine-millimeter loaded and tucked in the back of his waistband. Jackie was enjoying this. Rocky scowled.

'_Sick bastard_,' he thought.

Frank looked from one to the other. "So you didn't get her, you said."

They shook their heads and Jackie said, "It didn't go so well."

Frank shifted nervously from one foot to the other. "I'm gonna have to get out of here then – leave town. Leave the country. Murciano said he heard Bainbridge and Eppes talking in the car. She saw me on TV. She can identify me."

Jackie nodded sagely. "Probably a good idea. I'll bet that's what the boss is gonna tell us to do." He turned and spat his gum on the ground, glancing around as he did, making sure they were alone. It was a section of town with seedy warehouses and office buildings, deserted at that time of night.

"So, like, where you gonna go?" Frank asked Rocky. "I never did this before. You go down to Mexico, or what?"

Rocky shrugged. "I'll probably stay in the country. She didn't spy _me_ on a sideline on TV – they have no idea who I am or how to track me down. I just need to get clear of L.A."

"Enough chit-chat," said Jackie, "I'm tired. I'm gonna sit in the car until he comes." He shot Rocky a meaningful look.

Rocky said, "Me too. We might as well get what rest we can; we'll probably be on the run in an hour or so."

Frank looked at them uncertainly but as they turned away, he turned too, to go to his car. Jackie was quick as a cat; he whirled, grabbing his gun from his waistband and bringing it up straight at arm's length, just a yard or so from the back of Frank's head. There was one loud crack and Frank collapsed like a puppet with no strings, bashing what was left of his face on the concrete. The bullet had gone through the back of his skull and had torn a gaping hole in his face. Blood, black in the darkness, was already pooling under his head. Jackie stepped over to him, bent over, and, gun still in hand, retrieved his wallet. He straightened and without warning, tossed the wallet to Rocky.

Rocky knew as he caught it that diverting his attention was a mistake. He saw the gun come up out of the corner of his eye, and the world went black.

* * *

><p>End, Chapter 28<p> 


End file.
